CIHM 

ICMH 

Microfiche 

Collection  de 

Series 

microfiches 

(Monographs) 

(monographies) 

Canadian  Institute  ''    Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  canadien  de  microreproductions  historiques 


I 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibliographically  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 


a 


Coloured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 


□    Covers  damaged  / 
Couverture  endommagee 

□    Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couverture  restauree  et/ou  pelliculee 

I j    Cover  title  missing  /  Le  litre  de  couverture  manque 

I I    Coloured  maps  /  Carles  geographiques  en  couleur 

j    ^    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 


Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations  / 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material  / 
Relie  avec  d'autres  documents 


□ 


n 


n 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  edition  disponible 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion  along 
interior  margin  /  La  reliure  serree  peut  causer  de 
I'ombre  ou  de  la  distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge 
interieure. 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restorations  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have  been 
omitted  from  filming  /  Use  peut  que  certaines  pages 
blanches  ajoutees  lors  d'une  restauration 
apparaissent  dans  le  texte,  mais,  lorsque  cela  etait 
possible,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  ete  filmees. 

Additional  comments  / 
Commentaires  supplementaires; 


Llnstitut  a  microfilme  le  meilleur  exemplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
ete  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details  de  cet  exem- 
plaire qui  sont  peut-etre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modification  dans  la  metho- 
de  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiques  ci-dessous. 

I I    Coloured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

I I    Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommagees 


Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pages  restaurees  et/ou  pelliculees 


□    Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
Pages  decolorees,  tachetees  ou  piquees 

\v''  I    Pages  detached  /  Pages  detachees 

I  ^  \    Showthrough /Transparence 


I      j    Quality  of  print  varies, 


D 
D 


Qualite  inegale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material  / 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata  slips, 
tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  totalement  ou 
partiellement  obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une 
pelure,  etc.,  ont  ete  filmees  a  nouveau  de  fagon  a 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


I  Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 

'    discolourations  are  filmed  twice  to  ensure  the  best 

possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant  ayant  des 
colorations  variables  ou  des  cicolorations  sont 
filmees  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image 
possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below  / 

Ce  document  est  filme  au  taux  de  reduction  indique  ci-deisous. 


lOx 


14x 


18x 


22x 


26x 


30x 


12x 


16x 


20x 


24  X 


28x 


32x 


The  COPY  filmed  hare  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of; 


L'exemplaire  film^  fut  reproduit  grace  i  la 
gAn^rosit^  de 


National  Library  of  Canada 


Bibliotheque  nationale  du  Canada 


The  images  appearing  hare  are  the  bast  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  i\6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin.  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nertetA  de  lexemplaire  film*,  ot  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion   or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  ori'_  "^al  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  p       '       'ha  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  en^iing  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim*e  sont  filmis  en  commsncant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminal. t  soit  par  la 
derniAre  page  qui  conporta  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmis  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  derni^re  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning    "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
derniAre  image  de  chaque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — *-  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie   "FIN  ". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  orie  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  etre 
filmis  i  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  etre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  film^  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup^rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  ^  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
iiiustrent  la  mdthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1  2  3 

4  5  6 


MICROCOPY    RESOtUllON    TEST    CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2) 


1.0 


I.I 


12.8 


3  2 


II  2.5 

|Z2 

2.0 
1.8 


1.25 


1.4 


1.6 


^     APPLIED  IM^GE 


^'^i   Eost    Mam    Street 

^Chester.    Ne«   York         14609       USA 

•16)   482  -  0300-  Phone 

'16)    288-  5989  -  Fa« 


iMBiii 


JEFFREY  DEPREND 


sm 


EMBERS 


Copyright,    1918 
By  JEFFREY  UEPREND 


EMBERS 


A  NOVEL 


BY 


JEFFREY    DEPREND 


CHICAGO 

J.  W.  WALLACE  AND  COMPAxNY 

1919 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Copyright,  1SI18 
Hy   (.   W.  WAlJ.AfK  AND  COMPAN". 


E    M    B    1{    R   S 


JEFFREY  DEPREND 


EMBERS 


CHAPTER     OXF. 

The  highway  from  the  field  to  the  homestead 
stretched  out  hke  a  giant  snake,  hidden  in 
patches  by  undulating  slopes  ot  green  and 
yellow. 

The  distance  was,  perhaps,  a  mile. 

The  youth,  who  had  spent  the  day  a-field, 
trudged  wearily  homeward  behind  the  team. 

In  the  meadows  grasshoppers  sang  drowsily. 

From  the  river  hard  by  the  shrih  piping  of 
frogs  broke  in  upon  the  quiet  serenity  of  the 
scene. 

Along  the  way  the  eglanterre  ran  riot,  over- 
burdened with  laughing  bloom,  filling  the  air 
with  the  perfume  of  simplicity  and  the  sweet 
mysticism  of  the  earth. 

The  dust  lay  thick  upon  the  road. 

Cat-birds  mewed  sadly  in  the  haw  trees. 

[9] 


]0 


EM HERS 


Arrivil\^•  upon  an  elevation  in  the  road,  the 
youth  halted  and  looked  hael:. 

Leaning  heavily  against  the  flank  of  Rob, 
his  favorite  horse,  he  drew  a  long,  deep  breath 
whieh  was  more  like  the  heavins:  of  a  siHi, 
and  mopped  his  neck. 

He  gazed  back  into  the  valley  below,  where 
lay  the  field  fresh  ploughed  in  the  green  frame- 
work of  unbroken  ground;  the  rich,  dark  fal- 
low formed  a  picture  .of  promise  vague  and 
dim. 

"Done!"  exclaimed  the  youth  aloud. 

The  faint  murmur  of  a  bell  came  to  him. 

He  started. 

"Hurry  on,  old  fellows!"  said  he  to  the  pa- 
tient beasts ;  and  they,  understanding,  pricked 
up  their  ears  and  started  off. 

Maurice  was  tall  for  his  fifteen  years  and 
none  too  stoutly  built. 

His  eyes  were  blue  and  the  skin,  though 
freckled,  white. 

The  hair,  long  and  rebellious,  curled  clum- 
sily around  the  ears. 

After  the  fashion  of  country  youths,  he 
stooped  perceptibly  in  his  walk,  which  was  a 
long,  awkward  stride. 


EM15ERS 


11 


His  well  made  hands  were  cramped  and  the 
palms  calloused  from  contact  with  the  handles 
of  the  plow. 

The  finger  nai's  were  chipped  and  black  with 
the  loam  of  the  field. 

Before  him  lay  another  valley;  and  on  the 
summit  of  the  wide  plateau  beyond,  clearly  out- 
lined against  the  i)urpling  sky,  stood  the 
gabled  homestead  of  the  Rodrays,  who  were 
his  people. 

The  house  was  of  pretentious  proportions. 

It  was  of  red  brick,  with  green  shutters  and 

white  trimmings,  and  stood  on  the  crest  of  the 

plateau,  some  five  hundred   feet  back  of  the 

highway. 

Four  gables  pointed  each  to  a  different  cor- 
ner of  the  earth. 

The  land  about  the  place  spoke  well  for  the 
thrift  of  the  owner. 

In  the  rear  of  the  house,  an  apple  orchard, 
covering,  perhaps,  five  acres  of  land,  was  in 
bloom.  Flanking  this  was  a  ten-acre  field  in 
corn  and  potatoes.  On  the  far  side  of  the 
orchard  was  th-  family  garden,  in  which,  the 
elder  Rodray  not  infrequently  boasted,  every 
vegetable  known  to  the  clime  was  to  be  found. 


12 


EMBERS 


There  were  plum  :\u(\  eherry  trees  around 
the  entire  ed-e  of  the  {garden,  and  between 
these  and  tlie  fenee  !L;rew  enrrant  and  i^roose- 
berry  bushes  in  ]iro fusion. 

At  a  (hstance  of  some  eig-ht  hundred  feet 
from  tlie  liuuse  rose  the  barns,  the  slieep-pens 
and  the  stables,  between  whieh  and  tlie  house 
lay  a  strai.^dit,  well-beaten  path. 

The  Rodrays  were,  perhaps,  the  best-known 
family  in  the  surrounding  country. 

William,  the  father,  had  come  into  the  north 
country  and  settled  close  to  the  American 
frontier  when  he  was  yet  a  young  man  and  the 
land  virgin  forest  and  unbroken  soil. 

One  by  one  came  sturdy  pioneers  to  the  spot 
chosen  by  William  Rodray. 

The  wood'^man's  axe  and  the  stump  fires 
were  soon  at  work  in  their  destructive  mission. 

Gradually  clearings  were  made;  and  in  the 
open  spaces  humble  cal)ins  appeared  where 
white-winged  tents  had  stood. 

The  soil  was  rich  and  fertile;  the  yield  of 
crops  abundant. 

The  straggling  cabins  in  time  became  a 
street. 

The  hamlet  grew  and  gave  itself  a  name — 
Lasalle. 


EMBERS 


13 


And  as  the  hanilct  of  Lasalle  ,i,n-c\v  in  uealtli, 
in  prestig-c  and  importance,  so  did  some  of  its 
people. 

And  not  the  least  among  these  was  William 
Rod  ray. 

At  the  time  of  his  advent  in  the  field  of  his 
future  activities,  W  illiam  Rodray  was  a  slim, 
stern-looking  youth. 

His  possessions,  besides  the  thin,  frayed 
clothes  on  hk,  back,  consisted  of  a  red  kerchief, 
full  of  stale  crackers  and  cheese,  and  an  extra 
pair  of  cheap  cotton  socks  which  he  had 
washed  and  dried  by  the  side  of  streams  on  his 
way  throug-h  the  strange  country. 

A  few  shillings,  securely  tied  in  a  corner  of 
the  red  kerchief,  totaled  the  sum  of  his  meager 
fortune. 

^  ears  of  monotonous  sameness  in  his  diet, 
consisting  main^v  of  potatoes,  had  imparted  to 
his  features  a  starchy  pallor. 

A  native  of  the  North  of  Ireland,  his  boy- 
hood had  known  no  more  elevating  element 
than  the  fogs  and  the  bogs  of  that\vretched 
island. 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  great  animal  joy  that 
he  first  drank  in  the  hot,  clear  sunshine,  the 


14 


EMP.ERS 


cool  delicious  night  breezes  of  the  Canadian 
land. 

The  sound  of  the  axe  in  the  maple,  the 
crackling  of  the  smudge  fires,  the  yelps  of  the 
wolf-pnck,  the  distant  rumbling  of  the  raging 
cataract,  a  mile  away,  burst  in  upon  his  numb 
and  dreamless  soul  like  the  intonation  of  a 
mighty  song. 

He  took  a  wife. 

On  the  frontier,  in  those  days,  beauty  was 
by  no  means  an  essential  in  the  choosing  of  a 
helpmate.  If  a  maid  was  strong  and  buxom, 
had  a  wholesome  fear  of  the  Lord  and  was 
trained  in  ihe  spinning  of  wool  and  the  cook- 
ing of  common  fare,  the  lad  was  fortunate,  in- 
deed, who  came  to  possess  her. 

If,  for  good  measure,  the  lass  happened  to 
be  endowed  with  ros\  cheeks,  sweet  lips  and 
laughing  eyes,  with  small  feet,  a  full  breast 
and  well-rounded  hips,  so  much  the  better  for 
the  bridegroom. 

But  these  were  luxuries — qualities  that 
might  not  be  given  to  all,  and  which  men  would 
be  foolish  to  seek  with  persistence,  lest  the  men 
go  unweddcd  and  the  work  undone. 

A   large   family   was  born   of  the  union — 


EM  HERS 


15 


twelve  in  all.  Seven  died  in  early  childhood. 
Of  the  rcniaininij:  five,  three  were  g-irls— Ann, 
Mary  and  Alice.  Maurice  and  Georg-e  were 
the  only  son.s  of  the  family. 

If  pro.sperity  had  attended  the  .struggles  of 
the  emigrant  youth  in  the  gathering  of  wealth, 
the  same  might  not  be  said  of  his  efforts  to 
control  and  direct  the  members  of  his  house- 
hold. 

Eor  this  there  were  varying  reasons. 

Afrs.  Rodray  was  one  of  those  storm-tossed 
souls  which  the  Fates  seem  to  have  singled 
out  as  especial  objects  of  injustice  and  persecu- 
tion. 

The  elder  Rodrays  had  each  a  well-defined 
system  of  education  which  they  sought,  at 
every  opportunity,  to  impress  upon  the  minds 
of  the  children. 

The  father  held  his  spouse  in  open  contempt 
for  the  benefit  of  the  younger  members  of  the 
household,  while  the  wife  employed  every 
means  at  her  command  to  instill  in  the  hearts 
of  her  ofifspring  the  same  hatred  and  fear 
which  she  felt  for  her  lord. 

Thus,  and  among  such  surroundings,  had 
the  young  Rodrays  grown  to  where  they  could 
judge  for  themselves. 


16 


EMBERS 


Tiierc  were  factions. 

There  were  loud,  l)itter  fjiiarrels,  in  which 
both  elements  took  sides. 

The  scenes  usually  occurred  at  the  table. 

The  mother,  who  not  infrc(|uently  hrou.q-ht 
on  the  trouble  herself,  would  finally  settle  d-nvn 
into  a  whimpering-  drizzle  of  tears. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  man's  temper. 

lie  would  sprin.n^  from  his  seat  with  an  oath 
and  hurl  himself  out  of  the  room. 

And  now  the  mother,  recoverin.cr  her  e(|ua- 
nimity,  would  despatch  Alice  to  the  cellar  for 
compotes  and  other  delicacies  which  were  kept 
out  of  sight  of  the  father. 

Regalinc,r  the  spirit  with  the  body,  she  would 
now  go  over,  between  bites,  the  oft-repeated 
story  of  her  injured  love  and  t,,o  countless 
wrongs  which  she  had  suffered  at  the  hands 
of  W  illiam  Rodray. 
The  children  never  grew  tired  of  this  story. 
'1  hey  licked  their  chops  upon  its  recital. 

It  added  zest  to  the  monotony  of  their  little 
lives. 

It  imparted  a  delectable  flavor  to  the  plain 
brown  gravy  on  their  j)otatoes. 

Too,  it  gave  them  a  certain  standing  in  the 
household. 


EMBERS 


17 


For,  were  they  not  appealed  to  as  jikIl,^',^  ? 

On  the  other  hand,  if  one  of  tlieni  had  trouhle 
with  the  mother,  he  or  she  was  assur^  '  ininuin- 
ity  hy  .i^^oinc;-  stn.'-htway  to  the  tather  and 
layini^  the  case  hefore  In'm. 

"Away  with  you."  he  would  say,  "your 
mother  is  a  fool !" 

And  the  child  would  take  to  its  heels,  know- 
injif  the  case  was  \von. 

Alice,  the  younger  dau.t,diter.  had  prepared 
the  eveninj»-  meal. 

She  was  hr'n.e^inp^  in  steamino^  bowls  of  souj) 
and  plates  iaden  with  hot  biscuits. 

A  joint  of  boiled  beef  came  next  and  took  up 
its  place  in  the  center  of  the  table;  then  fol- 
lowed in  turn  deep  dishes  of  turnips,  carrots 
and  potatoes. 

The  g-irl,  a  comely  maid  of  fourteen,  now 
went  to  the  kitchen  door  and  rang  the  supper 
bell. 

Then  she  ran  over  to  the  wooden  bench  in 
the  corner  of  the  kitchen  and,  dipping  out 
water  into  an  earthenware  basin,  bathed  her 
face  and  neck. 

The  dining-room  was  of  generous  propor- 
tions. 


18 


EMP.ERS 


Three  lar^e  windows  j^mvc  liglit  and  air  to 
the  apartment. 

The  room  was  siihstantially  furnished. 

A  red  and  yellow  rai^  earpet  eovered  the 
floor. 

A  sidehoard  of  hl'ick  walnut  stood  solenmlv 
in  one  eorner;  in  another,  a  hox-like  stand, 
with  a  flat  top,  made  hy  Maurice,  to  answer  the 
purpose  of  a  servint^-table. 

On  the  walls  huuir  pictures  in  frames  made 
of  cones  and  acorns.  The  window^s  were  cur- 
tained with  long  strii)s  of  white  chint;^. 

The  air  was  laden  with  the  odor  of  lilacs, 
which  were  now  a  mass  of  purple  and  white 
bloom  in  the  open  windows. 

There  was  a  peculiar,  though  indefinable, 
lack  of  cheerfulness  about  the  room. 

The  bloom-laden  trees  in  the  windows  gave  a 
distinct  relief  to  the  senses,  while  the  vista  be- 
yond rolled  away  in  interminable  folds  of  green 
and  gold. 

The  father  was  first  to  enter  the  dining- 
room. 

He  was  a  man  of  fifty  years,  or  thereabouts. 

There  were  heavy  lines  in  the  face  of  the 

man,  wrought  into  the  image  by  a  long-waged 


EMBERS 


19 


iKittlc  aL^riinsf  ik'Huiv  in  early  life,  no  less  than 
I)y  the  never  eea>in.-  ■~truL;-ie  to  maintain  the 
mastery  of  his  houselioM. 

lie-  walked  with  a  thud  of  the  heel  and  a 
pronounced,  from  si.le  to  side,  jerk  of  the  head. 

Ins  t'aee  was  not  unkindly,  hut  hardened  hy 
the  lines. 

He  lo..ke<l  neither  to  ri-ht  nor  left  upon  en- 
terin.ij:  the  room;  l,u»  walke<l  t.)  his  seat  at  the 
Iicad  of  the  tahle.  hi>  head  han,c,ri„<r  i„  thouj^ht. 

And  nou  doors  opened  on  hotli  sides  of  the 
room  and  the  memhers  of  the  household  eame 
in  hastily,  as  in  apology  f,,r  the  sli-ht  delay, 
and  took  their  places  at  the  tahle. 

The  father  ca.t  a  swift  -lance  ahout  the 
room. 

''Whei     is  Maurice.^"  he  asked. 

•'J  just  saw  him  coming^  over  the  hill  with  his 
team;  he  naist  have  wanted  to  finish  the  oat 
held  to-day." 

The  speaker  was  Alice,  x\ho  alwavs  took  it 
tipon  herself  to  shield  her  elder  hrot'her  from 
the  irc  of  the  father. 

h  xyas  a  serious  infraction  of  the  rules  of  the 
iiousehold.  as  laid  down  hy  William  Rodrav 
tor  a  meal  to  be  served  without  all  of  the  familv 
bemg  at  table.  -^ 


20 


I'lMP.FCRS 


I  poll  tin's  (K-casioii.  however,  the  e\i)l;ma- 
tioii  carried  its  own  e\cll^e.  t'or  the  I'ather  made 
no  reply,  hut  hiisjed  hiniseh"  hrcakiiig  thick 
^hces  ol  hread  into  his  soup. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  tahle  sat  Mrs. 
Rodray.  a  .small.  i)lack-haired  woman,  with 
l)ale  skin  and  dark  hrovvn  eves. 

ilor  month  was  sm.tll  and  thin-Hpi)e(l  and 
her  mien  was  that  <»f  one  who  liad  suffered 
much  for  the  sweet  i)leasure  of  innocent  mar- 
tyrdom. 

One  mi.-^hl  easily  ima.e^inc  her  with  a  halo  of 
lij^dit  ahoul  her  head.  Icaviui,'-  her  saint's  niche  in 
the  facade  of  some  ancient  cathedral  and  hear- 
ing the  green  i)alm  of  her  earthly  triumi)hs  he- 
fore  the  great  throne. 

On  either  side  of  the  tahle  sat  the  other  mein- 
hers  of  th.c  faniilv. 

Ann,  the  first-horn,  was  to  he  married,  with- 
in a  few  weeks,  to  a  traveling  auctioneer  from 
()uel)ec. 

The  couple  had  spent  hut  a  few  days  in  each 
otiier's  company.  But  the  man,  a  siiahhy  ap- 
pearing felliAv  of  forty-odd  years,  was  anxiou.s 
to  settle  down  in  a  "iiome  of  his  own,"  while 
Ann,  on  the  other  side,  who  was  hut  eighteen, 


KMBKRS 


21 


had  i)trn  readiiinr  imidi,  of  late   of  lo 


vc  a 


11(1 


iiiaiKv.  uliert'in  .i,^•llla^l  kiiij^diis  and  volnptu 


lad 


ics  played  wondrous  parts 


ro- 
ot! s 


She  1 


)ii 


rncd  with  jj^reat  tire  and  waked  I 


vi,^ils.  hoj), nj^r  ti,;,,  ^,,1,,,^.  ,,„^.  niii-ht 


iii.i;-  into  her  ehaniher,  to  whom  si 


niL,^ 


come  (lash- 


Tak 


le  mis/ht  sav 


e  me 


ever 


r 


my  lord — I  am  your.- 


-s  now  and  tor- 


'khe  proposal  of  the  stran-^er  had  I 


leen  sjreed- 


dy   aecept-d    hy    the   i)arems.    insomuek 
would  mean  one  less  to  ici:^\  and  clothe    1 


moi 


e  especially.  perhai)s,  for  tl 
Ann  was  a  j^irl;  and  a  daiii-ht 


1   as    It 


)Ut 


le  reason  that 
er  married  and 


packed    off    to    hed    with    her    husband— that 
would  he  a  load  off  their  minds,  to  he  sure. 

Mary,  a  timid,  sweet-faced  maid  of  . . 
teen,  was  leavinjr  within  a  few  davs  for  the 


vent  of  iJie  Hotel  I) 


seveu' 


con- 


the  veil  of  the  sisterhood.       Tl 


leu.  where  she  was  to  take 


liad  not  pleased  the  i)arcnt; 
have  done  a  suitable  alliance. 


le  arrangeiuent 
as  well  as  would 


Jdiere 


were  a  number  of  reasons  for  this  the 


foremost  beine^  that  there 


was  ever  a  possibilii)'' 


of   Alary   leavini^   the  cloister   and 
home,  in  w  hich  case  it  would  be  next  to 
sible  to  marrv  her  off.  as  tl 


^tltIous  awe  of  an  ex- 


returnmg- 

impos- 

le  men  had  a  super- 


nun. 


22 


EMBERS 


In  such  an  evcMit,  it  \v(uil(l  devolve  upon  the 
elder  Rodrays  to  resume  the  burden  of  her 
maintenance. 

These  were  thing's  to  lie  considered  before 
the  leap  was  made. 

It  would  be  too  late  afterwards. 

And  then,  the  disgrace,  if  it  should  happen! 

But,  Ma  ;■  had  made  up  her  mind — she  was 


going. 


So,  the  family  fell  into  reluctant  silence  and 
prepared  for  the  departure  of  the  young  postu- 
lant. 

Alice  was  a  }ear  out  of  school  and  was  re- 
ceiving attentions  from  a  number  of  lads  on 
neighboring  farms. 

None  might  boast,  however,  that  he  received 
more  favor  tlian  any  of  his  rivals  from  the 
youngest  daughter  of  the  Rodrays. 

Fresh  and  winsome,  she  seemed  to  possess 
none  of  the  sterner  ciualities  of  the  father,  nor 
the  lachrymose  viuilictiveness  of  the  mother. 

She  was  the  housekeeper  since  the  mother 
had  capitulated  to  lier  beloved  rheumatism. 

"You'll  make  a  fair  cook,  Alice,  for  some 
good  farmer  lad  with  tliree  or  four  hundred 
acres,"  the  f;ithcr  would  say,  when  in  his  best 
mood. 


EiMBERS 


23 


At  ihi-  Mrs.  Rodray  would  give  a  slight 
start  as  though  pricked  with  a  pin.  Then  her 
head  shook  slowly  from  side  to  side  and  her 
little  brown  eyes  sought  heaven  in  nuite  appeal. 
She  was  thinking  of  herself  and  the  work 
that  would  sti'l  remain  to  be  done  when  the  last 
of  the  girls  had  gone. 

For  William,  the  father,  would  never  con- 
sent  to  her  having  a  servant  about  the  house— 
this  she  knew  well. 

George,  t!ie  youngest  son,  was  still  in  school. 
He  was  a  great  "mother's  boy"  and  never 
failed  to  make  capital  of  his  caresses. 

He  generally  knew  some  story  which  none  of 
the  other  children  had  heard,  wherein  the  elder 
Rodray  had  done  or  said  this  or  that. 

Or,  perhaps,  he  had  given  this  kind  of  a  look 
or  that  kind  of  a  look. 

The  mother,  ever  anxious  to  hear  of  some- 
thing detrimental  to  her  spouse,  never  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  sound  the;.e  tales,  which  were 
overdrawn,  or,  more  frequently,  without  basis 
of  truth ;  l)ut  swallowed  them  whole. 

Then  she  would  grow  excited  and  vitriolic  in 

her  denunciation  of  the  father  to  the  children. 

Little  had  been  said  during  the  meal,  as  the 


24 


EMBERS 


elder  Rodray  did  not  permit  conversation 
anionq;  the  } ount^er  members  of  the  family. 

Besides  the  sound  of  the  iron  forks  upon  the 
plates  and  the  cautious  sipping  of  hot  soup,  the 
room  was  in  silence. 

The  father  had  finished  his  supper  and  was 
prej)aring  to  rise  when  Maurice  entered  .he 
room. 

The  dark  hair  '•  )out  his  face  and  neck  was 
still  wet  and  clingmg  from  hasty  ablutions  in 
the  family  basin.  The  collar  of  his  flannel 
shirt  was  open  and  the  sleeves  rollerl  up  to  the 
elbow^s. 

In  the  "V"  on  his  chest,  described  by  the  lines 
of  his  open  .shirt,  the  cord  of  his  scapular  could 
be  seen. 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  walked  to 
his  seat  at  the  table  without  speaking. 

Alice  rose  to  fetch  his  supper  from  the  oven, 
where  she  had  i)Ut  it  to  keej)  warm. 

"Why  so  late?"  the  father  demanded,  look- 
ing up  at  Maurice. 

"I  wanted  to  finish  the  oat  field  to-day." 

And  then : 

"It  will  give  me  more  time  to  attend  the  mis- 
sion, and  Father  Xadeau  told  me  this  afternoon 
that  it  will  begin  a  ^^■eek  from  tomorrow." 


EiMl'.ERS 


25 


"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  fatlier,  "that  Jes- 
nits'  missions  and  the  science  of  a.s;Ticiiltiire 
have  anythini^  in  common.  lUit  I  do  know, 
and  this  much  I  can  tell  Father  Xadeau,  that  in 
one  instance,  at  least,  the  fields  come  first— and 
that's  with  William  Rodray.  A  fine  time  for  a 
mission — save  souls  and  let  the  earth  care  for 
itself.  Vcs,  let  the  devil  do  the  ploug-hing- — in 
May — when  not  a  moment  can  he  lost.  A 
pretty  kiddle  of  fish!  If  I  had  <,rone  to  church 
every  time  the  hell  rang.  \\\  l,e  in  the  poorhouse 
to-day.  Missions,  novenas,  triduums,  the 
devil !" 

"Oh,  you  wicked  man!"  Iiroke  in  Mrs.  Rod- 
ray,  clasping  her  thin,  white  hands  and  looking 
up  at  the  grey  ceiling.  -God  will  surely  punish 
you!" 

Turning  upon  the  woman,  the  elder  Rodray 
gave  her  a  look  of  infinite  scorn  and,  laughing 
outright  in  her  face,  "\'ou  hypocrite!"  said  h^, 
and  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER     TWO. 


Sanj^low,  the  parish  seat,  was  astir. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  the  mission. 

it  was  to  be  no  ordinary  affair,  tliis  nn'ssion, 
preached  by  four  able  orators. 

lad  been  promised  Sanqlow  for  years. 

i'>ut  not  until  now  had  Father  Xadeaii  tinally 
called  ;he  Hock  together  for  the  purpose  of 
moral  regeneration. 

True,  the  parish  priest  delivered  his  Sunday 
sermon  as  regularly  as  the  day  came  around 

I  kit  that  was  different. 

( )ne  grew  accustomed  to  one's  vicar  or  abbe 
and.  in  many  instances,  knew  beforehand  w'lat 
he  was  going"  to  sa} \ 

C)t  course,  when  things  reached  such  a  con- 
dition as  this,  the  life  s])iriiual  of  the  parishion- 
ers turned  sadly  monotonous. 

Little  wonder  there  uas  lack  of  attendance, 
and  snoring  in  church,  and  other  lai;->es  equally 
serious  in  the  mailer  of  Christian  performance. 

[26] 


EM15ERS 


27 


I  hit  the  i^reat  day  was  here. 

('^or  three  acres  on  either  side  of  the  church 
tlie  broad  avenues  were  Hned  with  carria,i,^es 
and  \-ehicles  of  many  descriptions. 

1-armers  and  villai^ers  were  g-rouped  to- 
.qeiher  in  sreat  numbers  in  front  of  the  church, 
where  they  cliatted.  awaitini,^  the  hist  bell  to 
enter. 

The  women,  for  the  most  part,  had  ^one  in, 
in  tlieir  eagerness  to  catch  a  first  glimpse  of  the 
missionaries. 

Xow  and  then  a  belated  carriage  drove  up 
and  discharged  its  occupants,  then  rolled  away 
to  a  shed  or  a  shady  tree  at  the  far  end  of  the 
lung,  black  line. 

Through  the  open  doors  of  the  edifice  the 
great  white  altar  niight  be  seen. 

It   was   resplendent    in    the    light   of   many 

ilames. 

The  country  folk  had  brought  flowers  out  of 
tlieir  gardens  and  they,  loo.  were  heaped  upon 
the  background  of  the  altar,  without  much 
show  of  taste,  as  by  the  hands  of  children. 

The  bell  sobbed  the  last  call  to  the  faithful. 

Men  threw  away  their  tobacco  and  hastily 
I)ruslie(l  their  clothing  with  their  hands. 


2S 


EMBERS 


All  talking-  ceased  in  the  ])ress  of  the  crowd. 

A  iiioinciil  later  the  doors  of  the  church  were 
closed. 

Wit  hill,  the  edifice  was  packed  to  the 
doors. 

Some  of  the  worshippers  had  come  many 
miles  to  attend  the  opening-  ceremonies  of  the 
mission. 

Those  there  were  whr,  had  journeyed  from 
neighhoring-  parishes  to  hear  the  "Black 
Fathers." 

The  Jesuits  were  looked  uj.^on  hy  a  great 
many  of  these  simple  folk  with  a  feeling  akin  to 
dread  mingled  with  deej)  reverence. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  church  wi's  stifling. 

The  celebrants  moved  about  in  a  haze  of  in- 
cense. 

Through  the  tall  gothic  windows,  entirely 
too  high  for  purposes  of  ventilation,  die  breath- 
less heat  streamed  down  upon  the  sweltering 
faithful.  During  the  long-drawn-out  'A'eni 
Creator,"  two  women  and  a  child  fainted  and 
were  carried  out  tlirough  the  side  door  into  rhe 
shade  of  trees. 

Ushers  tiptoed,  like  ghosts,  mopping  th.eir 
necks  and  faces  w  ith  sweat-drenched  kerchiefs. 


EMBERS 


29 


Presently,  a  hlack-rohed  li.^nire  appeared  in 
the  door  of  the  sacristy. 

Moving  over  to  the  foot  of  the  ahar.  the 
priest  knelt  for  a  moment,  his  head  inclined. 

And  now  he  rose  and  followed  the  crncifcr 
to  the  pulpit. 

"Leave  all  and  follow  me,"  was  the  text  of 
the  sermon. 

lUit  the  meat  of  the  discourse  ran  more  to  the 
words  of  Jerome  who,  from  his  rock-ribbed 
cave  in  the  East,  thundered  his  still  unanswered 
([uestion:  "What  will  it  profit  a  man  to  gain 
the  world  if  he  come  to  lose  his  soul?" 

'Fhe  speaker  told  of  the  evanescent  nature  of 
a:  earthly  joys,  of  the  limited  scope,  at  I)est,  of 
man's  life,  of  the  falsity  of  illicit  passions  and 
the  utter  shallowness  of  wordly  pleasures. 

Then,  working  gradually  to  the  climax,  he 
quoted  the  parable  of  Lazarus  and  the  rich 
man,  and  pictured  to  his  audience  the  awful  tor- 
tures of  the  lost  souls. 

There  would  be  weeping  and  gnashing  of 
teeth,  and  no  hope  of  abatement,  no  hope  of  de- 
liverance for  all  the  endless  eons  to  come. 
Women  wept, 
^len  sat  straining  in  their  seats. 


30 


KMr.KRS 


A  vdiint;-  m'iii  slirickcd  h_.  stcrically  ami  was 
taken  Din  into  tlio  cluirohyard. 

The  st'i'nion  la^Ud  two  liunrs. 

A  nunilK-r  of  pcopli-,  no  loni::'t'r  able  io  with- 
stand the  heat,  ha<l  left  their  ])ew.s  and  made 
their  way  noisele>sly  to  the  door  for  a  breath 
of  air. 

Some  who  had  bnsiness  at  home  were  driv- 
ing: off. 

For  those  who  remained  in  the  cluirch  there 
was  still  the  benediction,  with  the  '"Salve  Re- 
tina" and  "Tantnm  Ergo." 

And  now  the  wilted,  swelterini;"  mass  filed 
nervonsly  ont  of  the  edifice  and  stood  on  the 
wide  lawr.  chatting  and  drinking  in  the  pnrc, 
warm  air. 

The  Rodrays  were  among  the  first  to  lea\  e. 

The  father  was  in  haste  to  get  away,  as 
m.'ui}-  things  required  his  attention,  both  in  the 
fields  and  the  store. 

They  had  gone  some  distance  when  the  elder 
Ro!lray  tr    led  lo  [Maurice  and  said: 

"After  dinner.  _\ou  will  take  the  red  team 
and  start  in  on  the  oat  field.  We  can't  count 
(Ml  this  weather  after  the  coming  change  of  the 
moon,  and  we  must  make  hay  while  the  sun 
shines." 


K\[P.KRS 


31 


Tliis  was  a  blow  tu  .Maurice,  as  he  had  hoped 
to  take  advaiita.-v  of  at  least  the  first  day  of 
the  iiiissi,,,!,  and  there  were  to  he  two  inore 
sermons  t],at  day,  one  in  the  afternoon,  the 
othier  at  nii,^ht. 

I  he  hoy  stiffened  somewhat  in  his  scat,  but 
made  no  rej)Iy. 

His  mother  nudged  him. 

It  was  a  way  she  had  of  insiilh'nt^  revolt. 

Hut  Maurice  was  much  i)rone,  of  late,  to  fol- 
low his  own  jud-ment  in  matters  of  i)ersonal 
conduct,  and  in  tliis  instance  he  wisely  per- 
sisted in  his  silence. 

Alice,  who  had  remained  at  home,  served 
tlie  noonday  meal. 

The  churchgoers  ate  raxenously  and  had  lit- 
tle to  say. 

Mrs.  Rodray  alone  spoke,  hut  without  nuich 
response  from  her  hearers. 

She  kept  up  a  running  lire  of  comment  on 
the  el.Kiuencc  and  piety  of  the  speaker,  on  the 
attendance  of  the  parishioners,  the  like  of 
which  .he  had  never  witnessed  in  Sanglow;  on 
tlie  heavenly  grace  that  ^^ould  he  bound  to 
How  on  such  a  worthy  undertaking,  and  on  the 
golden  opportunity  afforded  sinners  to  redeem 


2>2 


EMllliRS 


tlu-ir   ->iiuK  tln"nii-!i   t!u'  inlcrxftiliDii  ot    those 
linK   ,111(1  ^clf-s.-ui'ilicin^"  nun. 

'\'\\v  n,'!iur,il  rt'Milt  of  Ikt  ii.'inc.cfyrir  wa^^  tliat 
wlu-n  all  had  ri^i'ii  ir<mi  tlu'  trihlc  Mv^.  Rud- 
ra\'  was  ^\\\\  loviii'^-  with  Ikt  sonp;  and  siu" 
was  t-atinL;-  a  halt'  hdnr  later  wlu-n  Manricc,  in 
his  field  clwihcs.  hni'si  into  the  dininn-room  on 
hi-^  way  to  the  stahle-. 

The  mother  atteini)led  to  speak,  hnl  the 
yonth  was  in  no  mood  for  parley. 

Knshint;'  ont  oi'  the  room,  he  slammed  the 
door  hehind  him  and  left  the  hon^e. 

That  ni.^ht.  Maurice  (lro\e  to  Sant^low. 

lie  hilehed  Rol)  to  a  tree  at  some  distance 
from  the  church  and  walked  over  to  the  pres- 
bytery. 

An  old  female  answered  the  nell. 

"I  wish  to  talk  with  the  father  who 
preached  the  openinir  sermon  this  morninj^," 
he  said,  in  French. 

"Ah,  oui.  Monsieur  Rodray,  le  Pere  Sa- 
vard."  she  replied,  sniilinq;. 

She  motioned  liim  to  a  ^e;it   in  the  i)arlor. 
and  went  after  the  priest. 
The  latter  came  at  once. 

He  was  a  tall,  dark  man,  w  itli  a  slight  limp. 


KMr.KRS 


33 


in 


lli^    lace   l)cainc(l    with   :i   smile   tliat   never 
clouded. 

Ills  \oii-i-  was  dcej)  and  imisical. 
"At  your  -ei-\  icT,  my  dear  yoiiiii;  man,"  said 
llic  priest,  closiiii;  the  door. 

And  now.  lor  the  first  ti:iie,  it  struck  Mau- 
rice th.it  he  had  undertaken  much. 

Ills  tyvs  t'ell  uix.n  the  floor,  and  he  flushed 
peiceplihly. 

I  he  missionavx  came  o\er  to  him  and  placed 
his  arm  tenderly  ahout  his  neck. 

"lie  who  sent  you  to  me.  his  unworthy  serv- 
am.  w  ill  <4i\e  words  to  your  lips  and  courag-c  to 
your  heart.  Let  us  recite  an  *Ave  Maria!" 
X<»\v.  then,  all  is  well.  N'our  name,  my  little 
man,  and  how  can  I  serve  vou?" 

•Maurice  g^athcred  confidence  from  the  words 
and  manner  of'  the  priest. 

He  came  to  the  point  at  once: 
"I  want  to  Qo  tr,  eollege.  .-;nd  my  father  .says 
1  mu<t  remain  at  home,  on  the  farm.  \\'e  arc 
tlie  Rodrays,  of  Lasalle.  Aly  father  owns  a 
general  store  and  ahout  three  hundred  acres  of 
I'arm  and  timher  land.  He  can  well  afford  to 
.give  me  an  education,  hut  he  will  not  hear  of 
my  going  away." 


ol 


l-Ml'.I'RS 


"f  Iiavr  lu'ard  ot  your  fatlirr  irom  I-'alhcr 
Xadcaii."  rcjoiiud  Saxard.  "lie  i^,  a>  I  take 
It,  a  man  <'i  parN  aii<l  one  who  lias  himself  a 
:L;()(Hlly  sinre  ut'  kiK i\\ ledjL^e.  Have  you  de- 
cided upon  a  prote^siitn  ?" 

■"I  lia\c  tlioUL^hi  <onie  of  the  priesthood." 

"Ah,  l)Ui  do  yon  tt'el  thit  \ ou  iiave  the  call- 
in,L(,  the  \ocation ;  It  is  ;i  serious  step,  my 
sou!"  And  the  ])rie^i  shook  his  head  with  a 
sad,  in^cnUahle  smile. 

"1  can  not  say."  replied  Maurice;  "but  1 
want  to  iu)  to  college.  I  can  not  bear  this  life 
of  the  farm." 

"My  boy,  there  is  a  j^rcat  deal  worse,"  said 
the  jjood  man — "Mon  Dieu! — c  great  deal 
worse!" 

Then,  changing  his  tone  to  one  of  dccisiv.,!. . 

"I  will  .see  your  father  tomorrow,"  he  an- 
noimced ;  "tomorrow  afternoon!" 

Maurice  went  home  with  a  light  heart.  In- 
deed, he  whistled  and  sang  aloud  all  the  way. 

And  the  follownig  day  he  toiled  in  the  oat 
field  without  e\-en  a  thought  of  grumbling. 

P^laine,  who  was  with  him  in  the  field,  noted 
his  mood  and  remarked  upon  it,  saying: 

"Maurice,  what  makes  you  so  happy  today? 
Yoti  surely  have  good  news." 


EM  HERS 


.Vt 


I  lu'  \(.iuli  Ic-t'i   tho  plow   and  came  over  to 
l^laiiie. 

"  I'hc  la-st  of  ne\s>."*  lu-  exclaimed.  "I'or 
n'^  >ate  to  s.iy  tlia'  I  am  .i^oiui;  to  collej:,^'.  <  )iie 
ot  the  niisMoiiarie.>  ha-  pi  )miso(l  to  see  iiiv 
lather  and  a-k  liini  to  let  me  >:;()." 

Alaiirice  did  tiol  see  ihe  cloud  -te.il  o\er  ihe 
tare  of  his  little  friend. 

Dazzled  hy  the  lit'e  which  he  pictm-ed  hefore 
liini.  I.y  the  very  tluniolu  of  shaking-  (his  hithy 
-"il  from  his  j„„,is.  he  never  saw  the  tears  thai 
welled  in  her  eyes  as  he  Inrned  awav  to  re- 
sume his  journey  around  the  field. 

She  was  a  stranq^e  little  parcel  of  ;  cd  hair, 
cluihhy  lc.q:s  and  hlue  eyes,  as  she  sat  on  the 
wooden  fence,  watchinj^-  Maurice  at  ln\s  labors. 
Her  hair  ran  wild  down  about  her  shoulders 
and  her  chin  rested  snuj^dy  in  her  hands. 
Anything  but  iM-ench.  one  would  have  said. 
^  et  she  was  as  much  so  as  her  father,  whose 
name  was  Baptiste  I.e  Rlanc.  and  her  mother 
who  had  been  a  I.alonde. 

-Maurice  was  the  crowning  passion  of  her 
ten  years  of  life. 

To  her  the  tall,  uncouth  boy  was  an  idol,  a 
protector,  sometiiinq-  noble  and'  w  orthv  of  great 
love,  a  being  beautiful. 


assxbimmm 


36  EMBERS 

She  felt  herself  drawn  to  him  as  to  a  mag- 
net. 

From  earU-  chiUlhocHl  he  had  hovered  over 
her  with  ali  the  eare  and  tenderness  ot  a 
brother  for  his  l)ai)y  sister. 

The  orccn  and  vellow  fields,  the  river  with 
it.  roar'in-  cataract,  the  orchards,  the  woods 
on  the  edoe  oi  the  villaiie,  all  had  been  silent 
witnesses  to  their  childish  l(^^-e. 

The  Le  Blancs  had  come  to  look  npon  Mau- 
rice as  a  son  in  the  family. 

\r.d  indeed,  when  certain  women  had  whis- 
pered '■beware.-  or  "maybe  thi^.  '  or  "perhaps 
that."  the  bov  having  taken  to  si)ronting  like  a 
weed,  the  siinple  parents  of  the  little  Le  Blanc 
girl  bade  them  be  silent  for  shame. 

How  could  they  dream  of  such  a  thing? 
Whv,  the  boy  would  give  his  life  for  their 
little  ibain-,  if  need  there  were. 

Under  the  wing  of  Maurice,  Elaine  Le 
P.lanc  lived  a  happy  childh(wd. 

She  folkwved  him  everywhere;  to  the  barns, 
into  the  fields,  where  lal)or  took  him. 

On  grist  days,  she  perched  alongside  of 
^Liurice.  on  the  spring  seat  of  the  big  wagon 
laden   with  sacks  of  corn  and  wheat,  in  her 


EMBERS 


37 


arms  her  rag  doll  ;ind  by  licr  side  the  basket  of 
lunch  prepared  by  Maninian  Le  Blanc  for  the 
two  travelers. 

It  was  a  loni;  wa\  to  the  mill,  and  the  day 
was  consumed  witli  the  wearisome  trip. 

Ihit  Maurice  entertained  his  little  comp.-'.nion 
with  manv  stories  .alonii'  the  road,  and  regaled 
her  at  intervals  uilh  candy  and  sweets  out  of 
his  drrp.  mysterious  pockets,  which  seemed  to 
111  lid  an  inexhaustible  supply. 

At  the  mill,  he  winild  gi\e  Elaine  into  the 
care  of  the  miller's  wife,  while  he  busied  him- 
self with  the  work  of  unloading  and  reloading 
tlie  wagon. 

Twilight  would  see  them  starling  for  home 
with  a  long  ride  ahead. 

\\y  this  time  the  day's  exertions  had  usually 
])roved  too  strenuous  for  Elaine. 

She  would  sit  for  a  while,  her  little  hands  in 
her  lap.  her  short,  plum])  legs  hanging  tiredly 
from  the  seat,  and  watch  the  red  moon  pee;^ 
n\cr  the  dark  shailows  of  the  hori/^on. 

Then  the  lilJe  weary  he.-id  would  nod  for  a 
moment;  and  she  would  come  to  .say  in  her 
soft,  coaxing  voice: 

"Maurice,  put  your  arm  around  me:  Em  so 
sleepy!" 


38 


EMBERS 


The  long  journey  ended.  Maurice  would  de- 
posit the  sleepinj,^  child  in  the  arms  of  her 
mother  and,  l)efore  going  home,  have  a  bowl 
of  hot  soup  saved  from  the  evening  meal  by 
Madame  Le  Blanc. 

Before  taking  leave,  lie  would  glance  at 
Elaine,  still  asleep,  on  the  old  hair  sofa  by  the 
fireplace,  and  smik  timidly  at  the  proud,  sim- 
ple-hearted parents. 

Then  home — home  that  was  not  so  much  a 
home  to  him  as  was  the  plain  farm  house  of 
the  Le  Blancs,  with  its  long  strips  of  home- 
made carpet,  its  warm,  old-fashioned  hearths, 
built  deep  into  the  walls,  its  blue  and  scarlet 
pictures  of  the  Holy  Family  and  the  patron 
saints,  and  all  the  quiet,  homelike  dignity  of 
humble  happiness. 

Years  had  passed  since  tlic  first  trip. 

But  Elaine  had  never  once  missed  ihe 
monthly  journey  to  the  mill.  She  looked  for- 
ward to  the  event  as  children  do  to  Christmas. 

It  was  a  great  day. 

It  was  a  day  when  she  had  her  Maurice  all 
to  herself,  without  interruption  or  the  pang  of 
separation. 


liMBERS 


39 


-i 
-■5 


Then,  there  were  the  fishing  trips  on  Satur- 
days and  hohdays,  when  there  was  no  school ; 
and  protracted  voyages  into  the  woods  for 
flowers  and  honey  trees;  and,  later  on  in  the 
year,  for  l)eech  and  butternuts. 

It  had  come  to  be  said  by  the  women  in  their 
doorways : 

"1  see  Maurice — Elaine  nuist  be  near  by." 
This   strong  attachment   was    looked  upon 
with  divided  feelings  by  the  elder  Rodrays. 

The  father  gave  it  his  tacit  approval,  for  he 
was  a  champion  of  early  marriage  and  home 
life  an<l  frowned  upon  celibacy. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  mother  looked  wath 
disfavor  upon  the  dec  ening  devotion  of  her 
son  for  the  little  French  girl,  believing,  as  she 
(lid,  and  hoping  with  all  her  mother's  heart 
that  her  sons  were  destined  to  the  "higher 
service"' — to  the  priesthood  of  the  chalice  and 
the  cross. 


Rodrav  was  at  work  in  the  store  when  Fa- 
ther  Savard  drove  up  and  alighted. 
"Mr.  Rodrav.  1  believe,  sir?" 


40 


EMBERS 


"Yes,  sir.  1  am  William  Rodray." 

"I  have  come  ^o  ha\e  a  talk  with  you,  Mr. 
Rodray,  on  a  suhjecl  of  some  delicacy." 

"Noll  refer  to  m\  son  Maurice  and  his  de- 
^ire  to  .G^o  to  college?" 

"[Precisely.  Mr.  Rodray." 
'\'o  harm  in  ihat,"  said  the  storekeeper. 

"And  that  is  wry  well  said,  sir,"  replied  the 
priest.  "lUit,  to  come  to  the  point,  I  will  ask 
yon  if  yon  would  deliherately  stand  in  the  hoy's 
way.  once  you  had  reason  to  l)elie\e  him  called 
t(j  liie  ser\  ice  of  the  Church?" 

"1  will  answer  you  hest  hy  sayint^  that  [ 
have  no  animosity  towards  the  Church  as  a 
callinii:.  nf)r  have  I  any  feeling  against  any  one 
of  the  professions.  It  is  the  natural  duty  of 
all  men  to  the  soil  that  has  actuated  me  in  the 
matter  of  my  refusal  to  send  Maurice  to  col- 
lege. If  you  will  step  with  me,  sir,  to  the  top 
of  yonder  hill,  1  will  ])oint  out  an  ohject  lesson 
that  will  he  worth  the  walk." 

■'J  shall  go  with  you  gladly,"  the  priest  re- 
plied. 

They  climhed  in  silence  to  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  from  which  a  wide  expanse  of  countrv 
could  he  seen. 


EMBERS 


41 


In  the  valle\-  Maurice  was  at  work  with  his 
team.      l"!lainc  was  astride  one  of  the  horses. 

They  did  not  seem  to  >ee  the  priest  and  Rod- 
ray. 

Savard  sjxjke  tirst. 

"A  peaceful  scene,"  he  remarked,  "and  one 
thai  all  hut  make*^  me  envy  yonder  lad." 

"And  Nonder  lad  i<  Maurice."  rejoined  the 
elder  Rodrav. 

"Ah,    indeed!"    exclaimed    Saxard.    a    trifle 
taken  hack  hy  the  coincidence. 

"Do  you  see  the  red  house  on  the  knoll,  with 
the  g-ahle  windows  and  <^reen  shutters?" 

"That  I  do."  said  Savard. 

"Do  you  see  the  o-arden.  ihe  shade  trees,  the 
dri\eways.  the  lawn,  the  harns  and  stahles?" 

"\'es.  yes;  a  heautiful  home,  sir!" 

"And  the  fields  and  meadows  adjoininji-  the 
highway  from  the  harns  down  to  the  cattle 
i^^razing  hy  the  river  side'" 

"Ves.  I  see  |)erfectly." 

"Well.  sir.  thirty  years  .-igo,  when  T  came  to 
this  spot,  the  land  1  have  just  shown  you  was 
a  wilderness  of  stones  and  trees.  [  have  given 
my  life  to  the  soil.  And  hchold  what  the  soil 
has  given  me  in  -eturn.     Ah.  she  is  a  jenlou^ 


42 


EMBERS 


mistress,  but  a  noble  one!     Xovv  look  to  the 
south,  where  the  smoke  is  rising  from  the 
chimney;    the    slate-colored    house,    with    the 
white  blinds — do  you  see?" 
Savard  nodded. 

"Can  vou  see  where  the  fences  are  broken 
down  and  the  cattle  straying  out  upon  the 
liighway;  the  broken  wheel  on  the  windmill; 
the  shutter  hanging  by  a  hinge;  the  barns  in 
want  of  paint — tell  me,  blither  Savard.  can 
vou  see  the  place — I  mean  the  things  I  have 
])ointe(l  oiu  to  }ou?" 

"Why,  yes,  most  clearly,  si;-.  But  what  pos- 
sible bearing  can  all  this  have  on  the  business 
in  hand?" 

"It's  the  house  of  the  Frenchettes,"  replied 
Rodray.  "I'renchette  and  myself  came  here 
about  the  same  time.  I  le  was  a  saving,  hard- 
working fellow.  He  brought  with  him  a 
young  wife  to  Lasalle.  They  had  a  family  of 
five  children,  three  sons  and  two  daughters. 
Xothing  would  do  but  the  sons  should  go  to 
college.  Two  of  them  stayed  there  and  be- 
came priests.  The  other  studied  medicine, 
and  is  now  ending  his  ill-spent  life,  a  hope- 
less victim  of  drugs.     The  wretched  place  now 


EMBERS 


43 


awaits  the  sheriff's  hammer,  to  satisfy  usurers 
and  creditors,  lon^  unpaid." 

"Vou  draw  a  o-loomy  picture,  my  dear  sir. 
But,  tell  me  the  appHcation  of  it,  to  your  way 
of  thinking." 

"I  am  tliinking,"  said  Rodray,  "that  it  is  a 
devil  of  a  hard  matter  to  say  whether  a  hov 
has  the  calHng  or  not ;  and  that  if  lie  must  take 
a  seven-year  course  of  studies  to  learn  the  yea 
or  nay  of  it,  he  is  mighty  lucky  to  find,  in  the 
end,  that  his  path  docs,  in  fact,  lie  that  way. 
For  if  it  do  not,  and  all  his  preparation  he  in 
vain,  (iod  help  him  for  a  misfitted  thing  in  life, 
is  what  I  sav." 

"But,  still,  it  is  your  duty,  my  friend,  to  give 
the  boy  the  chance  to  learn  his  vocation." 

"I  understand,"  replied  Rodray,  his  eyes  be- 
yond, on  the  house  of  the  h'renchettes.  "I  un- 
derstand," he  said  a  second  time. 

Then  he  wheeled  about  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  Savard,  ^vho  understood  that  a  strug- 
gle was  taking  place  between  opposing  forces. 
The  priest  walked  off  a  few  paces,  fingering 
the  rosary  which  hung  from  his  belt. 

And  now  Rodray  came  towards  the  priest. 
He  was  pale  and  his  voice  unsteadv: 


44 


EMBERS 


'"Tlic  lad  may  .2^0.'  said  he.  "Bu*.  mark 
mc.  I  shall  have  ii"  I'urtluM-  voice  in  the  mailer 
of  his  callinc;'.  I  wash  my  hands  of  it  for  all 
lime,  lie  ahandons  the  sod — well,  let  him  lie 
in  his  hod  as  he  makes  it!" 


CllAPTl'lR     THREE. 


'I'lie  crops  iln"i\c(l.  that  }t'ar,  in  tlic  HeUls  of 
William  Rodray. 

Tlie  soil  brought  forth  a  bounteous  yield. 

The  bumpers  were  filled  to  overflowing;  and 
the  harvest  moon  rose  o\er  ]>eace  and  plenty  in 
Lasalle. 

The  summer,  with  all  her  gladness,  passed 
away,  and  autumn.  stri])ped  of  bloom  and  blos- 
som, came  in  stark  i)regnancy. 

Mrs.  Rodray  had  put  the  last  touch  to  her 
preparations  for  her  son's  departure. 

Cetween  smiles  and  sobs  and  softly-breathed 
prayers,  she  now  awaited  the  tragic  hour  of 
his  going  forth. 

It  was  a  cold,  gra}-  morning  in  September; 
and  the  earth  la\-  wra|)ped  in  a  thick,  white 
mantle  of  rime. 

Many  of  the  trees  were  leafless. 

A  pale,  sickly  moon  was  pasted  on  the  dull 
sky,  like  a  patch. 

[45] 


4o 


KMf^ERS 


Maurice  mounted  to  the  seat,  Ite>idc  his  fa- 
tlier,  who  took  the  rein^. 

Ah'ce  eaiiie  i-unninj^  out  of  the  house  with 
some  apples,  and.  ••Iitr.l)inj4-  onto  the  huh. 
shoved  them  into  Maurice's  pockets. 

There  was  a  sad  effort  at  cheerfulness  from 
the  mother  and  the  ,i^irls,  who  were  standinj^  in 
the  doorway  of  the  "oodshed. 

'rhe\-  held  their  aprons,  and  their  lips 
twitched  in  the  stru^'-.[::le  to  keej)  hack  the  tears. 

W  illiam  Rodray  said  no  word. 

I  Ic  was  like  a  thinp^  of  stone. 

The  old  horse  turned  tlow  n  the  driveway. 

A  little  hide-covered  trunk  was  in  the  rear 
of  the  wagon. 

Maurice  pulled  up  his  coat  collar  and  looked 
back. 

The  women  were  weepinj^  now.  their  faces 
buried  in  their  aprons. 

Maurice  felt  something  strange,  like  a  clutch, 
at  his  throat ;  but  he  choked  it  back. 

He  was  on  the  path  of  his  desire. 

In  the  house  of  the  Le  Blancs.  a  little,  tear- 
streamed  face  gazed  out  upon  the  wagon,  as  it 
crept  over  the  hill  and  passed  out  of  sight. 


ciiArri:R  four. 


The  old.  j^ray  collcj^v  li.ul  taken  on  an  air  of 
activity  and  life. 

The  iron  ^ates  of  the  courtyard  hanfjcd  in- 
cessantly, as  Brother  Beatrix  svviinj^  them  to 
and  fro  for  the  waj^on-loads  of  trunks  and 
boxes  that  were  arrivins^  for  the  students. 

It  was  the  first  Monday  in  September — the 
day  set  for  the  openinp;  of  the  classes:  and  tlie 
long  corridors  of  the  building,  the  visitors' 
apartments  and  the  play-grounds  in  the  rear  of 
the  college  swarmed  with  students  and  their 
relatives. 

Here  and  there,  in  the  dingy,  ill-lighted  par- 
lors, a  sob  broke  out  above  the  hubbub  of  chat- 
ter, where  a  mother  was  taking  her  first  leave 
of  a  young  son. 

Some  looked  upon  it  all  as  a  pleasant  nov- 
elty; and  laughed  in  anticipation  of  the  conges 
and  the  many  visits  to  come. 

[47] 


48 


KMinCRS 


Nouiil;-  hoys — iDcrt-  l);il)c>  in  yr;ir>>,  iiiunchcd 
.swcrt  meats  and  clun^-  t(i  their  mothers* 
dresses,  (|uite  unsn^i)ei-tin,L;  of  tin-  pan.^s  oi'  the 
separation  that  \\a>  nearinj;  lor  them. 

In  thv  iilay-,L;roun(ls,  croups  of  hoys  stood 
ehaltin,!^  and  .i^ettin-  ae(|uainted.  while  others 
inchilj^cd  111  a  .i,^'in)r  of  laorossc,  haschall,  or 
erieket. 

In  the  recreation  hall,  wiiere  a  refreshment- 
>tand  had  heeii  esiahlishi'<l.  oiu-  of  the  older 
students,  who  was  workin,^-  Ins  ua\-,  was  sell- 
in-'  ehoeolates.  hnrnt  almonds,  pies,  eakes  and 
I'ruils. 

A  little  farther  on.  has^hall  l)ats.  laero.^se 
slicks,  still V.  liaid  halls,  and  a  variety  of  >porl- 
ins  goods  were  sdlin-  at  a  g(j(j(l  profit  lo  the 
institution 

At  the  tar  end  ol  the  room  a  priest  was  chat- 
tin,^-  pleasantly  with  a  ^roup  of  hovs  a»i(l  ta.k- 
ino-  applications  for  enrollment  in  the  Socictc 
dc  St.  I.onis  dc  (ion/asne  and  the  Societe  de^ 
Entants  de  Mane. 

Here  and  there  in  the  l)lack  swarm,  a  lonely 
little  soul  mii^ht  he  seen  keping  timidly  to  him- 
self, in  the  shadow  of  the  walls,  or  standing 
apart  on  the  skirt  of  a  group  of  noisv  vouno-- 


emi:p:rs 


49 


^tcr>>,  not  venturin;:^  to  lake  part  in  tlu-  plav  or 
the  conversation. 

Somctinies  two  oi'  ilic^c  lonely  ones  chanced 
to  meet  and  torni  an  ao(|naintance. 

This  was  perhapN  the  starting  point  ot'  ;i 
friendshij)  that  would  endure  throntj^h  the  Um^ 
years  ot"  collep^e  Vik',  nay.  who  nii^^ht  say? — till 
life  was  at  .m  end. 

Maurice  Rodray  arrived  on  the  noon  train. 

A  number  of  students  were  g^ointj;-  in  as  he 
rea-'hed  the  college. 

lie  followed  them,  with  an  indefinable  sense 
of  awe. 

There  was  a  cold,  forbiddinj;^  aspect  to  the 
great  stone  buildinj^.  that  reminded  him  of 
stories  he  had  read  of  i)risons  and  donjon- 
keeps. 

He  hesitated  on  the  threshold. 

The  homestead  at  Lasalle.  the  trees,  the 
river,  the  fields.  Alice,  h:iaine.  flashed  before 
him  in  panorama.  The  little  world  he  'lad  fled 
seemed,  of  a  sudden,  bright  and  alluring. 

A  lay  brother  motioned  him.  impatiently,  to 
enter. 

He  obeyed. 

"From  the  country,  I  perceive?"  remarked 
the  brother. 


50 


EMBERS 


"'^es.  sir,  from  Lasalle." 
-Little    matter;   they'll    take    the   dross    off 
your  coat,  my  lad." 

The  youth  l)it  his  lip  and  walked  away  into 
the  hall,  his  face  a  deep  red. 

Maurice  saw  a  priest  emerge  from  one  of 
the  guests'  parlors  and  turn  off  towards  the 
lower  end  of  the  hall. 

Me  caught  up  with  him. 

"Father!"  he  said. 

"Well,  mon  ami  ?"  replied  the  priest,  slapping 
the  youth  good-naturedly  on  the  back. 

"I  am  Maurice  Rodray,  from  Lasalle,"  be- 
gan the  newcomer,  producing  a  letter,  written 
by  Father  Nadeau,  and  another,  by  Savard, 
and  addressed  to  the  rector  of  the  college,  in- 
troducing Maurice. 

"Ah.  oui.  this  is  the  young  monsieur  Rod- 
ra\',  of  Lasalle!  T  have  heard  of  you  from  the 
good  Father  Savard  himself.  He  wants  us  to 
consider  you  his  protege.  But,"  said  he,  up- 
•  •n  a  brief  scrutiny  of  Maurice,  ''this  is  a  fine 
young  man.  this  young  Rodray,  of  Lasalle! 
Have  you  had  any  Latin?" 
"No." 


( I 


EiMBERS 


51 


"Too  bad;  I  wanted  you  in  my  class — Versi- 
Ikation.  But,  the  world  is  not  going  to  split 
over  that,  is  it,  Maurice?  Allons!  We  shall 
go,  together,  to  the  Father  Rector.  I  will 
leave  you  with  him,  for  he  will  likely  wish  to 
give  you  a  word  or  two  of  advice.  But,  Mau- 
rice, come  and  see  me — you  understand?  'Sans 
ceremonie.'  you  know ;  yes,  come  and  see  me !" 

"I  would  like  to  know  your  name,"  ventured 
Maurice,  becoming  more  assured. 

"Demers — Father  Demers." 

The  rector,  an  old,  gray-haired  man  with 
thick  spectacles,  received  the  young  Rodray 
kindly,  and  turned  him  over,  after  a  moment's 
conversation,  to  the  prefect.  Father  Lacroix. 

The  prefect  took  him  to  his  professor,  and, 
after  a  brief  introduction,  handed  him  over  to 
an  older  student,  by  name  Bangneulo. 

The  latter  was  to  act  as  the  new  student's 
guardian  in  the  matter  of  acquainting  him 
with  ♦^^he  rules  and  routine  of  the  college. 

"Well,"  said  Bangneulo,  when  they  were  by 
themselves,  "what  do  you  think  of  it,  so  far?" 

Maurice  had  no  answer.  He  looked  up  into 
the  face  of  his  companion,  as  if  to  find  one 
there. 


52 


EMBERS 


"The  -c-ows"  arc  hell."  >aid  the  guardian; 
"you'll  find  that  out." 

"The  'crows'?" 

"N'es,  the  professors  and  prefects.  Oh.  you 
have  lots  to  learn !     Where  are  you  from?" 

"Lasalle." 

"Xot  from  the  city,  eh  ^^  What  class  are 
}ou  m?'' 

"I  don't  know;  I've  had  no  Latin." 
"Are  you  j^oing  to  take  the  classics'^" 

"^>s." 

"That's  seven  years.  1  have  three  more  to 
do.  Here  comes  a  toad— Chaput.  He's  got 
an  idea  that  he's  a  bully.  Out  f  blacked  both 
Ins  eyes,  last  year,  for  stealing  figs  out  of  niv 
trunk  m  the  dormitory:  They  starve  you 
here." 

Chai)ut  came  boldly  up  to  the  pair  and 
stoi>ped  short  in  front  of  Maurice. 

He  was  a  short,  stocky  fellow,  with  an  evil 
ghnt  m  his  small  black  eyes. 

His  hair  was  straight  and  jet.  like  an  In- 
dian's. 

His  face  and  neck  were  covered  with  pim- 
ples and  black-heads. 

He  addressed  Maurice  in  French: 


EMBERS 


53 


"Where  are  you  from?" 

■'I  conic  from  Lasalle." 

"'The   devil,   you   say!     And    pray    tell   me 
where  is  Lasalle?" 

Maurice  cau^dil  the  sneer  on  the  other's  face 
and  understood  the  nudj^e  froiu  Bani^neulo. 

The  gihe  of  the  lay  brother  was  still  fresh  in 
his  mind. 

"You'll  do  well  to  study  your  map,  Monsieur 
Timpleface,'  and  attend  to  your  own  afifairs." 

"Well  said,  my  lord,"  retorted  Chaput, 
growing  white  under  the  sting,  but  with  an 
admirable  effort  at  composure.  "Well  said," 
he  repeated,  bowing  low,  in  mock  humility.  'T 
do  believe  we'll  J3e  able  to  make  something  of 
him — upon  my  word!  Will  my  lord  excuse 
his  humble  servant  ?  Au  revoir,  Monseigneur ! 
Au  plaisir!"  And  he  strode  ofif  towards  a 
group  of  students  at  the  other  side  of  the 
grounds. 

"I  like  your  grit,"  said  Bangneulo,  when 
they  were  alone  again.  "But  you'll  have  to 
watch  him.  ^'ou  should  have  knocked  him 
down.     Do  you  box?" 

"Box?" 

"Yes — this  way?" 


54 


KMBERS 


"No;  in  Lasalk*  I  had  no  need  for  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"Have  you  never  liad  any  battles  in  school?" 

"Oh.  yes,  lots  of  theni." 

"^'ou  did.  eh?     How  did  you  come  out?" 

"Well.  I'm  not  much  of  a  fighter;  but  I  have 
always  managed  lo  lake  care  of  mj^self." 

"There's  the  bell."  said  Bangneulo.  "We 
have  to  fall  in  ranks  fo-  supper." 

The  students  came,  in  response  to  the  bell, 
from  all  parts  of  the  building  and  grounds  and 
assembled  in  the  main  hall. 

Tn  a  few  minutes  the  second  bell  rang.  The 
students  now  fell  in  in  the  military  formation 
of  "company  front."  At  the  third  bell,  which 
sounded  a  moment  later,  the  long  line  came  to 
a  "left  face"  and  moved  off  in  double  file  in  the 
direction  of  the  refectory. 

Th.ere  was  more  than  one  awkward  move- 
ment on  the  part  of  newcomers,  but  the  ma- 
jority of  the  boys  had  been  in  college  at  least 
one  year;  and  these  guided  the  undrilled. 

The  refectory  was  a  long  hall,  with  rows  of 
tables  on  either  side. 

Wooden  benches  served  as  seats. 


EMBERS 


55 


luicli  table  seated  troii)  twelve  to  fourteen 
sttidents. 

A  religious  or  historical  work  was  read 
aloud  by  one  of  the  older  students  during  the 
meal. 

On  holidays  conversation  was  allowed. 

It  happened,  strangely  enough,  that  Maurice 
was  assigned  to  a  seat  directly  opposite  Chaput. 

For  the  latter  he  had  already  conceived  an 
implacable  hatred.  The  fellow's  face,  actions, 
speech  and  manner  were  repulsive  to  him. 

After  the  incident  of  the  afternoon,  Chaput 
paid  no  heed  to  Maurice,  but  contented  himself 
with  eyeing  hin:  covertly  when  Rodray  was  in 
sight. 

At  the  table,  he  sucked  his  soup  loudly  and 
gulped  his  food  like  a  savage. 

His  mouth  and  chin  were  smeared  with 
grease  and  atoms  of  meat  and  bread. 

He  criticised  the  food  aloud,  saying  it  was 
not  fit  for  pigs. 

"In  that  event,  Monsieur  Chaput,  you, 
above  all,  should  refuse  to  eat  it,"  said  the  sub- 
prefect,  who  was  passing  the  table  at  that  mo- 
ment, and  overheard  the  remark. 


56 


EMBERS 


Ilieii,  by  way  of  <rood  measure,  he  added: 
"^ou  uill  a)i)y  three  hundred  Hues  of  Aristo- 
tlo  Ml  the  orioinal  Greek.  Have  it  ready  for 
me  by  hechinie.  day  after  tomorrow." 

The  suh-,,refect.  Father  Adam,  was  a  thin, 
dark,  undersized  man,  who  preferred  sarcasm 
lo  o-ood  Nvine.  He  was  a  terror  to  tlie  stu- 
dents, by  whom  he  was  thoroughly  disliked. 

Maurice  had  but  poorly  satisfied  his  hunger 
when  the  signal  was  given  to  rise. 

And  there  were  others  of  the  "new  ones" 
who  glanced  longingly  at  the  food  left  on  the 
tables,  as  they  filed  out  of  the  refectory. 

That  night,  on  his  cot,  Maurice  remained 
.-'wake,  long  after  the  lights  were  out,  and 
went  over  the  incidents  of  the  day. 

He  was  sorr)-,  now,  that  he  had  not  struck 
Chaput. 

He  felt  that  he  could  easily  have  whipped 
him.  '■ ' 

He  worked  himself  into  a  fever. 

He  saw  himself  lay  low  this  insolent  fellow 
with  a  single  blow. 

He  could  hear  the  others  shouting  their  ad- 
nnration  tor  him,  the  newcomer,  and  their  ex- 
ultation over  Chaput's  defeat. 


EMBERS 


57 


Tlien  the  bitter  thouirht  came  to  him  that  lie 
had  missed,  out  of  sheer  stupidity,  the  chance 
to  attain,  in  one  stroke,  an  enviable  standing 
among  his  fellows. 

He  dwelt,  with  bitterness  of  heart,  on  the 
affront  ofifercd  him  on  the  very  threshold  of 
the  college  by  a  lay  brother. 

He  smarted,  even  now,  under  the  sting  of 
this  rude  fellow's  words. 

The  more  so,  when  it  occurred  to  him  that 
this  man  was  beneath  him;  that  he  was  but  a 
lackey  in  black  cloth,  performing  menial  tasks 
for  the  priests,  and,  as  to  attainment  or  educa- 
tion—a blank. 

Perhaps  Bangneulo  was  right  about  the 
"crows." 

He  regretted  not  having  gone  to  another 
college,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  where  the 
sons  of  plain  people  and  country  folk  were  not 
despised  for  a  little  mud  on  their  boots. 

Here,  at  Saint  Mary's,  they  all  seemed  to 
think  themselves  of  the  nobility. 

They  went  with  their  heads  in  air,  with 
haughty  manners  ill  becoming  their  stations, 
which  were,  in  truth,  no  better  than  his  own' 


58 


EMBERS 


It  was  \ery  late,  and  the  dorniitory  snored 
loudly  wiien  he  fell  asleep. 

The  following  day.  Maurice  was  assigned  lo 
"Syntax,"  the  lowest  of  the  Latin  grades. 

He  went  through  the  various  phases  of  in- 
itiation like  one  who,  seeing  many  unwonted 
things  at  once,  retains  hut  a  vaguj  impression 
of  the  whole. 

There  were  sixty  pupils  in  his  class. 

Me  came  into  the  class-room  with  a  hundle 
of  new  hooks  under  his  arm. 

The  seats,  for  the  most  part,  were  taken. 

The  professor  was  speaking. 

Maurice  stood  hefore  him,  hesitating. 

There  was  a  sudden  ripple  of  laughter 
among  the  students. 

The  professor  glanced  at  Maurice,  who  was 
now  blushing  deeply. 

"Well,  my  good  man,"  said  the  priest,  "can 
you  not  find  a  seat?  Have  ]  your  name  on  the 
roster?" 

Maurice  did  not  find  words  at  once. 
He  tried  to  speak,  hut   his  lips  refused  to 
move. 

He  felt  the  sj)irit  of  ridicule  bubbling  about 
him. 


EMBERS 


59 


A  student  left  his  place  and,  coming  over  to 
Maurice,  pointed  out  a  vacant  seat  in  the  rear 
of  the  room. 

Rodray  turned  round  to  see. 

The  faces  of  the  students  jrrinned  mali- 
ciousl}'. 

There  were  titters,  cat-mews,  groans. 

"Silence!"  shouted  the  priest,  conung  down 
heavily  ui)on  the  desk  with  his  ruler. 

Then,  to,  Maurice,  in  a  <[uiet  tone: 

"^'our  name?" 

"I  am  Maurice  Rodray— from  Lasalle." 

"Take  Ihe  vacant  seat  on  the  left  aisle,  in  the 
last  row.'' 


C-[IArTI-R    FIVE, 


Maurice  settled  down  to  his  studies  and 
ua.i^-ed  a  iosin^^  hattle  with  "AJensa"  and 
"I/l'^|)itonie." 

Latin  was  a  stone  wall  before  him. 
The  declensions  were  a  maze;  the  conjuga- 
tions imj)ossil)le. 

Others  in  his  class  made  headway  and  re- 
ceived commendation  for  their  work.' 

Bin  it  struck  Maurice  that  these,  who  need- 
ed It  less,  were  assisted  through  diftkult  pas- 
sages by  the  professor,  while  he.  who  was  at 
the  tad-end  of  the  class,  was  passed  over  with- 
out notice. 

In  the  examinations  preceding  the  Christ- 
mas holid.iys,  Maurice  was  among  the  la^t  five 
of  his  class. 

On  the  eve  of  the  home-going,  he  was  on  his 
way  to  the  study-hall,  when  he  met  up  with 
rather  Rheaume,  his  professor. 

[60] 


EMIJERS 


61 


Tl 


and  sec 


ic  latter  was  coniini;,'  out  of  the  refectory 


iiied 


in  j^ood  spirit: 


Vli.    Rodray."   he  said,   not   unkindlv.     "I 


have  heen  pronii.siiij,r  myself  a  word  witl 


•11 


1  voii. 


me,  my  son,  do  you  not  think  it  would  be 


better  tor  you  to  stej)  down,  for  a  whil 
the  I'Vench  class,  and  there  build 


ie,  into 


uj)  a  sfron^^er 
foundation )>  [  had  a  talk  with  l-ather  Savard, 
the  other  day,  about  you." 

'f'^ither  Savard?     lias  he  been  1 
or  a  few  moments,  on  his  way  throuLd 


•i 


lere 


the  city, 


"And  you — vou  told  1 


mine? 
'•\V 


inn  of  this— failure  of 


iy,  my  son,  you  look  at  it  in  tl 


li.q:lU,  1  assure  you.      It  is  not  your  fault—' 


ours.     Wq    should    1 


le  w  ronq- 

)Ut 


grasp   the   classics    instead  of   ni 


lave    given    you    time    to 


without 
Lat 


m. 


'I 


piun^tng   vou, 
a    moment's   notice,    into   (jrcek   and 

Jld 


could  never  consent  t.,  that,"  .said  Mau- 
rice after  a  moment's  silence. 

The  i)riest  placed  his  fincrer  o^,  er  the  boy's 
heart.  -^ 

;'So  fell  the  angels!  Maurice,  bew.re  of 
))ride.  And.  durin-  the  holidays,  o-jve  my 
suggestion  thought. 


62 


EMIU'RS 


"\'ou  arc  j^'-oing^  home,  I  dare  say?" 

"Lntil  yon  spoke  to  me,   I  was  j^oiiij;;  Inn 
n(»\\   I  shall  remain  here." 

"Well.  well,  and  why  thi>  snddcn  resolution? 
\\  hat  will  your  j^ood  parents  he  thinking?" 

"I  would  like  to  -o.  to  Ik-  sure,  but  Til  not. 
I'm  goinj;  to  stay  here  and  >tudy." 

"Bravo!"  exclaimed  Rhcamne,  clapping  his 
student  on  the  hack.  "Bravo,  niv  son!  A„d 
rest  assured  that  I  shall  help  you.  We  shall 
Mart  in  tom(./r(n\  !" 


It  came  as  a  shock  t,,  Mrs.  Rodrav.  that 
Maurice  would  not  he  home  tor  the  holidays. 
She  l;ad  a  i^reat  many  things  to  tell  him' 
And,  hcsides,  she  !iad  counted  not  a  little  (>n 
ihe  honor  of  walking  up  the  main  aisle  of  the 
church.  Christmas  day  on  the  arm  of  her  eld- 
est son,  "home  from  college." 

She  had  grown  quite  proud  of  hi.  heino- 
there.  "^ 

She  would  find  a  way.  invariably,  to  intro- 
duce the  subject  to  friends  and  strangers  alike 

It  would  be  "since  my  ;.on  has  gone  to  the 
Jesuits";  or.  "I    feel  quite  lost  without  Mau- 


K-MfUCRS 


63 


ncc.  my  i;oy.  ulio  is  i„  mlkgc" :  or.  apai.i. 
"All.  (i,„i  is  a  jealous  inaMcr!  lie  rIvcs  nic  a 
M)n  aiKl  ta!:c<  iiirn  froin  ,„e.  The  dear  boy  is 
m  the  Jesuits'  Colle-e,  you  knou-.  H,.  hopes 
lo  i)t'(.-oine  a  priest." 

•A  iMr.thcr's  lieart."  slu- H-ouM  often  sav  'a 
•••""■^•■■^  I-eart!  ^••ho  hut  a  mother  k.i'nv. 
^^'••'"•'^'•'love?  VouMhere's  my  Maurice- 
,i^"ne.  you  nii..ht  >ay ;  ho  is  with  t.lie  ftsuits' 
v'U  knov.-studyincr  ,-„r  the  j.riesthoo,!  Ah' 
'low  we  suffer,  we  poor  mothers!" 

ilowever,  >he  resi^^med  herself  reluctai.ih' 
'<'  'lor  son-s  letter  and  set  ahout  to  prepare  a 
'••'^ «>  sweet.,  and  delicacies  for  the  absent  one. 
1  Ins  was  done  by  the  mother  and  the  -iris 
C'corj^^e  drove  lo  the  station,  that  night  ''v.ith 
tl^e  box,  while  the  elder  Rodrav  was  away 
irom  home.  "^ 

I  or  the  father  must  not  know  of  this 
The  latter,  on  the  other  liand,  upon  hearing 
<)t  .vlaunce  s  decision  to  remain  at  the  college 
^vrote  him  a  long  letter  in  which  he  spoke  of 
the  horses,  the  cattle,  the  sheep,  and  the  cut- 
ting of  cord -wood  in  the  timber  land. 

i  le  admonished  his  son  to  give  all  his  time  to 
^tudy,  to  shun  evil  coir.panio.  ,  and.  if  at  any 


64 


EMBERS 


time  he  miglit  l>e  tempted,  to  give  women  a  wide 
bertli. 

There  was  a  twenty-dollar  bill  in  the  letter 
—"a  Christmas  gift  which,  I  trust,  you  will 
put  to  good  use  and  of  which  I  enjoin  you  not 
to  speak  to  your  mother." 

Maurice  flushed  as  he  read  that  part  of  the 
letter  which  told  of  the  live  stock  and  the  wood. 

An  American,  from  Montana,  who  was  also 
spending  the  holidays  at  the  college,  was  com- 
ing towards  hi)ii  at  this  moment. 

Ke  folded  the  letter  hastily  and  p.  it  in  his 
poc!  et. 

When  the  ciasses  reopened,  in  January, 
Maurice  was  well  grounded  in  the  declensions 
and  regular  conjugations. 

True  to  his  word,  Rheaume  had  spent  every 
available  moment  of  his  time  drilling  his  pupil. 

"Dc  you  see  the  tall,  dark  boy  yonder?"  th 
I'riest  would  say  to  guests  or  intimates.  "What 
do  you  think  of  him?  A  gooc^  face,  is  it  not? 
He  is  making  Syntax  under  a  handicap.  I  tried 
to  reason  with  him,  to  show  him  that  he  would 
do  better  to  step  down  a  grade.  And  what  do 
you  think  he  did?  He  refused  point-blank! 
And  don't  you  know  that  he  is  going  to  make 


EMBERS 


65 


It?     ^Vs,  sir,  hanging  on  by  his  teeth,  and 
going  to  make  it!" 

After  the  return  of  the  students,  the  Hfe  of 
the  college  settled  down  into  the  monotony  of 
dull  routine. 

At  Easier,  Mrs.  Rodray  ciime  to  sec  Maurice. 

Alice  was  with  her. 

They  were  shown  into  one  of  the  guests' 
parlors.  Mrs.  Rodrax  carried  a  little  black 
satchel;  Alice  a  large  carpet-bag.  which  was 
over    eighted  and  bulging. 

Upon  Maurice's  appearance  in  the  doorway, 
the  motiier  began  to  weep. 

Alice  ventured  to  say  that  she  slK.uld  not 
carry  on  in  this  style;  that  there  were  other 
people  in  the  room,  and  that  Maurice  would  not 
be  ai)t  to  take  it  in  good  p;irt. 

The  latter  had  halted,  for  a  moment,  to  speak 
to  a  priest  in  the  doorway. 

He  came  over  now  to  the  women. 

Me  made  a  faint  effort  at  a  smile. 

Hf  .as  visibly  put  out  at  sight  of  his  mother, 
who  vas  now  wiping  her  eyes  and  smiling  at 
him  in  her  tears. 

Alice  rose  to  kiss  her  brother,  and  sat  down 
again. 


66 


EMF^ERS 


Tliere  were  two  red  spots  on  her  cheeks. 
She  shuffled  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  moved 
her  feet  nervously  on  the  roui^h  floor. 

Mer  hair  was  bang-ed  over  the  forehead  and 
done  in  a  hi":  knot  at  the  hack  of  her  liead. 

Slie  wore  a  j)laid  woolen  dress  of  a  j^ray  and 
black  mixture. 

The  skirt,  which  fell  above  her  boot-tops, 
showed  tvvo  white  bands  of  stockings. 

^\irs.  Rodray  was  tastily  dressed  in  black 
and  wore  gloves  and  a  new  bonnet. 

After  the  first  few  words  of  greeting,  there 
was  an  interval  of  silence. 

Alice,  with  a  view  to  starting  a  conversation, 
caught  up  the  carpet-bag  md  made  as  if  to 
open  it. 

Maurice  took  her  arm: 

"Don't  open  that  here."  he  said,  in  a  hoarse 
undertone.  "My  God!  I  would  never  hear  the 
end  of  it  from  the  students !" 

Alice  dropped  the  bag  and  looked  up  at  her 
brother,  and  from  him  to  Mrs.  Rodray. 

The  mother  was  gazing  at  the  son,  her  hands 
crossed  o\  er  the  little  satchel,  an  ecstatic  smile 
lighting  up  her  pale,  thin  face,  a  strange,  glint- 
like fire  in  her  brown  eyes. 


EM  HERS 


67 


"If  you're  ashamed  of  me,  Maurice.  I  can 
.•-TO  I)ack  home."  said  Alice,  .s^oing-  white. 

She  was  on  her  feet  as  she  spoke. 

Maurice  laid  his  hands  upon  hers  and  said: 

"Xo,  no.  Alice:  I  never  meant  anything  like 
that— you  know  1  didn't.  Rut  the  boys,  you 
know."  turning  i,>  Afrs.  Rodray  for  contirma- 
tion.  "the  boys  are  such  upstarts!  I'll  have  a 
porter  take  it  up  to  the  dormitory,  after  a 
while,  and  put  it  under  my  bed." 

"\\  hy.  what  a  silly  thing  to  say,  Alice!"  said 
Mrs.  Rodray.  "As'l.amed  of  you?  What  an 
idea  !  Poor  girl !  \o<a  ha\e  ycmr  father's  teni- 
])er— oh,  that  man !  that  cruel  man !" 

"Mother,"  said  Maurice,  "leave  off  this  fam- 
ily talk;  some  one  may  o\erliear  it:  and,  be- 
sides, it's  very  disagreeable  to  sit  here  and  go 
over  those  thinirs." 

"U'hy.  Maurice!"  exclaimed  the  mother, 
"what  has  come  over  you?  N'ou  never  acted 
hke  this  before.  I  thought  surelv  to  find  con- 
solation here,  with  you,  for  wlun.;  I  have  made 
so  many  sacrifices!" 

As  she  spoke,  the  tears  welled  again  in  her 
eyes,  and  her  lips  twitched  in  the  etifort  to  re- 
strain them. 


68 


EMBERS 


At  tliis  moment,  Father  Rhcaiime  entered  the 
room. 

Maurice  called  him  over  to  his  party. 

"lie  is  rny  eldest  son."  said  Mrs.  Rodray  to 
the  priest,  smilinj^  sweetly.  "Ah,  you  priests 
are  such  nohlt  men !  A  mother  should  be  glad, 
indeed,  to  give  her  son  to  the  Church.  I  be- 
lieve, in  fact,  that,  in  doing  this,  1  will  fmd 
great  consolation  and  a  reward  for  past  sacri- 
fices." 

"I  had  no  idea."  remarked  Rheaume,  "that 
our  Maurice  had  thoughts  of  the  priesthood." 

The  priest  glanced  from  son  to  mother. 

Mrs.  Rodray  said  no  more,  but  looked  at 
Maurice  with  a  strange  hxity  of  gaze  and  a 
smile  that  hovered  close  to  tears. 

They  left  early. 

Mrs.  Rodray  broke  down  completely  at  the 
leaxc-taking.  and  Maurice  experienced  a  sud- 
den relief  when  the  mother  and  sister  had  gone. 

He  had  never  had  this  feeling  towards  Mrs. 
Rodray  in  the  past. 

But,  to-day,  she  had  seemed  to  have  about 
her  an  indefinable  atmosphere  of  impending 
disaster. 


EMBERS 


69 


She  was  ever  too  eager  to  air  her  troubles  to 
strangers. 

And  that  would  never  do  here  in  the  college. 

She  dragged  out  the  faniilv  skeleton  for  the 
gaze  and  scrutiny  of  all  or  any  who  wished  to 
hear  or  see,  much  as  his  father  showed  off  his 
finest  horses — at  least  such  had  been  her  habit 
n  1  asalle:  and  he  knew  she  had  not  changed 
her  habit  in  so  short  a  while. 

And  Alice ! 

Why  had  his  mother  not  seen  to  her  clothes? 

Xo  gloves. 

.\nd  then,  those  abmninable  white  rags  of 
stockings ! 


Things  ran  on  smoothly  to  the  end  of  June, 
and  ilie  close  of  the  first  year  of  his  studies  saw 
him  rise  from  a  despised  tail-ender  ti)  be  the 
twentieth  pupil  in  a  class  of  sixty. 

1  here  was  now  the  summer  vacation  of  two 
months. 

.Maurice  went  back  to  f.asalle. 

1  le  came  at  the  close  of  the  day. 

The  elder  Rodrav  met  him  at  the  station. 


70 


EMBERS 


Farmer^  and  idlers  stood  about  in  little 
groups  on  the  platform. 

They  knew  Maurice. 

But,  few  spoke  to  him. 

Some  raised  their  hats  in  silent  salutation. 

There  was,  already,  a  ,Qap  between  this  son 
Of  the  soil  and  the  tillers  thereof. 

Maurice  had  strai.q'htened. 

The  stooj)  in  the  shoulders  was  gone. 

His  chin  struck  a  higher  angle,  and  he 
seemed  a  trifle  conscious  of  superiority. 

Rob,  the  favorite  horse  of  the  returning  son, 
turned  his  head  to  Maurice,  lie  whinnied  in 
recognition  and  pricked  up  his  ears. 

The  station-master  hoisted  the  student's 
trunk  onto  the  spring-wagon  of  the  Rodways. 

It  was  a  large,  square,  massive  thing.  The 
little  hide-covered  thing  he  had  taken  away 
was  not  there. 

Along  the  way,  the  wheat  and  oat  fields  lay 
in  \el\et  mantles  of  green. 

The  frogs  were  piping  their  shrill  songs,  to 
which  Maurice  had  been  wont  to  listen  as  a 
farm  lad. 

The  wild  flowers  were  bursting  forth  in  riot- 
ous bloom  along  the  banks  of  the  dustv,  yellow 
highway. 


EMBERS 


71 


Men  and  women  stood  in  their  doorways, 
staring,  as  father  and  son  drove  h\ 

On  the  hill  beyond,  >ii  the  \eianda  of  the 
Rodway  honle'^tead.  a  little  knot  of  white- 
aproned  women  waved  white  ki  rchiefs  to  the 
retnrninj^-  son.  seated  beside  his  father  in  the 
waf^on. 

When  the  greeting-  was  over  and  the  hubbub 
of  excitement  had  subsided  to  a  softer  note. 
Mrs.  Rodray  stole  away  to  her  bedroom  and 
wept — wept  for  very  jov. 

J'^or  wa.  ibis  not  a  day  to  remember? 

Was  there  another  mother  in  all  Lasalle  who 
luul  so  much  cause  to  rejoice? 


191 


CMAPTRR  SIX. 


On  tlie  nii»rro\v  oi  lii's  honie-coniin^-.  "Maurice 
rose  late. 

'riir()iii.^h  tlie  open  window  of  In's  bedroom, 
on  tlie  ui)|)er  floor,  a  warm  breeze  swelled  ilie 
wliite  nuill  curtains,  like  sails  in  L;racioiis 
winds. 

The  ai)])le  orchard  below  had  lost  its  bloom, 
and  the  round,  (T;-reen  fruit  was  be.Q^inninj^-  to 
l)eep  throui^h  the  heavy  foliafte. 

.\  robin  chir])ed  boldly  on  the  top  of  the 
nearest  tree  and.  seeinc?  Maurice.  t1ew  awav. 

I  ie  gazed  long  upc^i  the  simple  scene. 

His  mind  groped  through  a  maze  of  things 
which  came  to  him  obscurely,  like  the  remnant 
of  a  dream. 

This  he  knew: 

Some  change  was  taking  place  within  him; 
a  slow,  subtle  change  which  |)assed  his  under- 
standing, and  in  the  pr.  cess  of  which  he  was, 
like  i)otter"s  clay,  a  plastic  and  helpless  subject. 

f"21 


EMBERS 


71 


He  was  conscious  of  a  \ery  delinile  desire  lo 
heconie  a  cereal  man  in  the  world. 

He  j)icture(l  himself  lea(hn^  an  army  in 
battle;  or.  ^arhed  in  the  hlack  rohe  of  the 
l)leader.  crushinj^-,  with  sheer  elo(|iience  of 
speech,  the  case  of  the  Crown  a,i,^•lin^t  one  whom 
the  world  knew  to  he  guilty;  or,  ai;ain.  he  saw 
himself  appealed  to  hy  the  sick  and  diseased  of 
the  realm  as  the  coiuM  of  last  reort  in  the  heal- 
ing- of  human  ills. 

The  paths  of  i^lory  called  him. 

P.ut  it  was  the  jnilpit  which  drew  him  most — 
ih.e  mysticism  of  the  Word  and  the  i,dory  of  the 
.  Iatter-da\-  prophet. 

-Ml.  Xotre  Dame!  just  to  preach  an  Easter 
>ermon  in  the  I'asilica  of  Xotre  Dame! 

Me  thought  of  the  respectful  hearing 
towards  him.  of  the  villagers  and  farmer.s  at 
the  station  upon  his  arrival. 

They  would  how  lower  than  that,  some  day! 

I  le  would  soar  upon  the  wings  of  greatness. 

Then,  a  humiliating  thought  came  to  him, 
unhicklen:  At  the  college  he  was  nobody;  a 
mediocre  student;  a  country  lad;  conspicuous 
tor  no  other  quality  than  that  of  being  the 
tallest  and  oldest  student  of  his  class. 


74 


EMP.ERS 


He  tntMicd  from  the  window. 

1 1  i^  iiioiluT  was  callinjj;'  liiiii. 

I  lor  \()icc  oaiiH-  t<>  lii^  vAy<  like  an  echo- 

"Mv  son.  \i)uv  liri'akfasi  is  waitinji." 

\\  In'lc  111'  was  eatiMii-.  ilic  I'all'cr  c.ar'e  'nlf 
ilie  rooni. 

Mrs.  Kodray.  .Mii'o  and  (ioori^c  were  seated 
around  the  tahk'.  their  cm's  on  Miurice,  who 
\(»iu-hsate(k  heiween  ni"niht'uk  si(k'lii;hts  on 
liis  ht'e  in  eoUej^'^e. 

Maurice  was  sparing-  \  ith  the-i-  h'tle  scraps 
of  nilormalion  hearing-  upon  ini'^eh',  and  dealt 
them  out  slowly  and  wiili  a  show  of  di^'nitv 
becoming  an  ekdest  son. 

Upon  the  entrance  of  ih.e  elder  Rodray  the 
family  laj)se(l  into  silence. 

Idle  father  \^  as  in  his  stable  clothes,  which 
smelled  stron^-ly  of  cattle,  and  his  loni;-  boots 
were  cru-ted  with  duns;-.    I  le  said: 

"When  you  have  eaten,  .Maurice,  I  want  you 
to  take  a  walk  with  me;  I  shall  be  in  the  store." 

William  Rodray  was  sorting  a  i)ile  of  dried 
hides  in  the  ^^ore-room,  cutting  off  the  tail-tips 
and  horns,  and  making  two  sep-;ate  heaps,  one 
of  rtawless.  the  other  of  imper;"ect  skins. 


EM".ERS 


75 


lie  sMaij^lit.  iu'(l  uj.  fr(»iii  his  task  and  looked 
;it  Maurice  as  the  laller  entered  the  r<X)in. 

The  younger  Rodray  noticed,  for  the  first 
time  since  his  return  to  Lasalle,  that  his  father 
had  aged  during  the  inotuhs  of  his  ahscnce. 

I  he  hues  in  the  face  w  ere  deeper  ;  there  were 
more  gray  hair-  on  the  temples  and  around  the 
edge  of  the  hea\  v  shock. 

Too,  he  f.iiicu'd  that  hi'-  father  stooped  a 
little  now. 

"1    >ha  '    lock   up   the   store,"   said   William 
Rodray.  taking  down  a  heavy  key  from  its  peg 
on  the  wall  and  ijroceeding  to  suit  the  action 
%  to  the  word. 

1  e  led  hi-  son  to  the  .->tables,  where  he 
-howed  bin.   certain   improvement^    which  had 

en  made. 

-V  w  mangers  had  Ix^en  installed,  and  a  long 
woooen  duct  had  been  built,  which  ran  the  en- 
tire length  of  the  stable>.  at  the  outer  edge  of 
the  stalls,  for  tl.  •  purj)ose  of  carrying  away  the 
urine  to  a  cistern  in  the  barnyard  : 

"iMjr,"  explained  he,  "it  is  an  excellent  ferti- 
lizer of  the  soil. 

"We  will  now  walk  over  to  the  pasture — I 
have  bought  some  very  fine  .>tock  while  you 
have  been  awav." 


76 


EMBERS 


(  )ii  their  \va\  to  till-  pasture,  the  father 
iminteti  nut  K'liaiu  ( liau^a's  which,  he  thought, 
would  imrea^e  the  yield  of  the  crops. 

"\-n\  must  ^wc  the  soil  a  chance  lo  rest,  to 
retriexe  itself —  Uiucli  the  >auie  as  men.  It 
would  ue\er  do  to  keep  on  sowing  the  same 
fu-ld  lor  c'\er  and  e\  er  in  wheat,  or  in  corn,  or 
in  oats.  In  fact.  I  would  he  in  fa\or.  if  I  had 
surticient  land,  and  could  alTord  it.  of  lettiiiij 
the  fields  take  turn  ahout  and  have  a  year  ofT. 
once  e\ery  so  often — a  holiday  of  the  soil.  The 
land  would  he  the  hetter  for  it." 

At  the  hars  of  the  pasture,  he  j)ointed  out  to 
Maurice  three  Jersey  cow  s  and  a  hull  which  had 
l)een  added  to  the  stock  that  s|)rin^^ 

A  line  hay  i^eldirij^-  looked  up  from  the  ^rass 
and  came  t^-allopiui"^  over  to  the  gate. 

The  cows  followed  slowlw  mooing. 

"Over  there,  in  the  large  lield.  is  all  the  old 
stock  that  was  here  when  you  went  away;  [ 
want  them  all  to  get  acfpiainted  gradually.  It's 
not  safe  to  turn  strange  cattle  into  the  same 
field  with  the  old  stock. 

'■|  ha\e  turne<i  the  sheep  over  to  Duquette 
for  the  summer;  sheep  ruin  the  land." 

Mam-ice  stroked  the  cool,  wet  noses  of  the 
cows. 


EMHERS 


77 


lUit  \^  licn  he  attoiiiptcd  to  dress  the  peldinj:^, 
he  !nriic(I  ah<.iit,  kicked  up  liis  feet  and  ji^allopcd 
'•It'  ajj^aiii. 

■"Well."  said  the  father.  Iurni^^  to  Maurice, 
what  do  you  ihink  of  the  farm  tiow  ?   (jr  are 
you    still    deteniimed    to    ti,i;ht    it    out    wiih 
(  aesar" 

'■^es.  father.  I  have  he-un,  and  I  an.  ^ouicr 
to  lii;ht  it  out." 

"Ah.  well,"  said  the  older  one. 

And  now.  aJ,^ain,  it  struck  the  son  that  the 
lather  was  j^rouin;;-  old. 

in  the  afternoon,  Maurice  walked  over  to  the 
J.e  I'lanc's. 

Mrs.  Le  Mlanc  was  cliurninn^  in  the  summer 
kitchen. 

She  hesitated  an  instant,  then  clasped  the 
youth  about  the  neck  and  planted  a  kis.s 
sijuarely  on  his  lips. 

fJajniste  Le  I'.lanc  was  in  the  fields. 

"FJaine!"  cried  tiie  mother,  running  out  into 
the  yard  and  looking  up  at  the  open  window  of 
her  daughter's  room.  "Elaine,  my  girl,  come 
down  quick ;  some  one  is  here  to  see  you !" 

h'laine  came  into  the  room. 

She  had  grown. 


78 


EMBERS 


I 


Slie  smiled  at  siq-ht  of  the  guest,  and,  walk- 
ii\,  up  to  him.  lOok  the  jirofFered  hand. 

'Well,  and  i>^  that  all?"  queried  Mrs.  Le 
lUanc,  thoroughly  hapjn-.  and  enjoying  the  c\  i- 
dent  emharrassment  of  the  two  youngsters. 

Then  Maurice  took  the  yielding  child  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her.  as  had  been  his  wont  in 
the  old  davs. 

Xothing  would  do  hut  that  Maurice  should 
.'-tay  for  sup])er. 

And  when  Bajniste  came  in  from  the  fields, 
he  nuist  ope  i  a  quart  of  gooseberry  wine,  which 
was  served  with  generous  slices  of  "la  bonne 
femme's"  cake. 

"IClaine  goes  to  the  convent  in  September," 
>aid  Mamman  Le  Blanc  to  Maurice;  "we  have 
about  decided  f»n  Saint  Athanase." 

The  two  parents  looked  at  young  Rodray, 
as  if  to  ask  him  if  the  plan  met  with  his 
a{)proval. 

Maurice  remarked  that  both  they,  the  par- 
ents, and  Elaine  would  suffer  from  the  separa- 
tion. 

"^ou  know,"  he  said,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  has  smi  muc.i  of  life,  "she  is  the  only 
child.   Bui.  of  course,  it  w  ill  be  very  nice  in  the 


EMBERS 


79 


end.     For  there  is  nothing;  to  be  compared  to 
an  edncation." 

"Of  course,"  rejoined  ^Jrs.  Le  Blanc,  "it  will 
I)c  very  trying,  especially  at  first.  But  we  will 
try  to  get  over  the  ennui;  is  it  not  so  'la 
Petite'?"' 

Elaine,  seated  close  to  Maurice,  bit  into  her 
cake  and  nodded  to  her  mother,  smiling. 

"Why,  Mamman,"  broke  in  Bapti.ste,  "Saint 
Athan;.se  is  but  eighteen  miles  from  Lasalle. 
Just  a  .>hort  run  for  the  black  team." 

"F^ah!"  he  exclaimed,  springing  from  his 
se.-it  and  coming  over  to  Elaine.  "\\'e  shall  see 
her  every  week  when  tlie  roads  are  fit." 

So  saying,  he  stroked  her  cheek  for  a  mo- 
ment thoughtfully.   Then  he  added: 

"We  must  make  a  fine  lady  of  our  'Petite.' 
Is  It  not  so,  Mamman?  French,  English,  music, 
needlework,  mon  Dieu,  goodness  knows  what 
not!  Maurice,  you'll  not  know  her.  I  tell  you. 
you'll  not  know  her — some  day!" 

With  that,  he  tossed  off  a  glass  of  the  goose- 
berry wine,  lighted  his  pipe  and  went  out  to 
teed  the  pigs. 

In  the  evening.  Baptistc  hitched  his  best 
horse  to  the  new  phaeton  and  led  it  around  to 
the  front  of  the  house. 


80 


EMBERS 


"Jiini])  in.  you  two,  and  take  a  drive,"  sjiid  ht 
to  Maurice  and  T^lainc.  "Saj)risti,  if  there's  a 
lit^rse  in  the  cfuintry  that  can  reach  this  fel- 
low's hcvis.   I  want  to  see  him." 

lie  caressed  the  nohle  l)ruie.  stroking"  its 
n  x'k.  and  hekl  the  bridle  w  hile  tlie  pair  got  in. 

And  as  they  drove  down  the  winding  piF*' 
and  disappeared  in  the  shadow>  of  the  night, 
r)aptiste  Le  Blanc  and  his  wife  stood  gazing 
>ilently  after  them. 

In  the  long  summer  months  Maurice  spent 
nuich  time  with  Elaine. 

At  home  he  was  treated  more  like  a  g"ues>- 
than  a  son  of  the  family. 

1  le  rose  late. 

His  breakfast  was  cooked  scjiarately  for  him 
or  kept  warm  in  the  o\-en  till  such  time  as  he 
dme  doAvn  from  his  room. 

r")elicacies  we!  e  saved  .uul  set  apart  for  him. 

If  it  w;  s  ham,  the  leaner  slice  was  for 
Maurice. 

The  outer  cut  of  a  roast  must  go  to  him,  for 
he  liked  his  meat  well  done. 

Jf  there  was  a  shortage  of  any  fruit  or  vege- 
table, Maurice    was    not    permitted    to  suffer 


I 


EMBERS 


81 


il'.erefroni.  for  he  was  always  the  first  to  be 
served. 

And  no  one  made  objection,  not  c\en  WilHani 
Rod.ay,  who  belie\ed  in  absohite  ecinahtv 
aniont;'  his  children. 

'idle  latter  was  himself,  a  man  of  anstere 
appetite. 

lie  connted  himself  well  started  ont  upon 
the  day  with  a  rasher  or  two  of  salt  pork, 
boiled  j)olatoes  and  a  bowl  of  weak  tea. 

A  plumj)  hen  for  Sunday,  a  fat  goose  for 
special  occasions,  and  plenty  of  plain  fare  the 
year  round — what  more  could  one  wish  for? 
he  was  wont  to  say. 

The  summer  tied  like  a  dream. 

Again  the  day  of  parting  came. 

Maurice  went  buck  to  his  studies.  I-daine  Le 
Pdanc  to  the  convent  of  Xotre  Dame  at  Saint 
Athanase. 

The  Le  JJlancs  drove  (ner  to  the  convent. 

The  leave-taking  went  hard  with  lie  mother, 
who  broke  down,  towards  t'-'e  last,  and  wept. 

Raptiste,  who  had  something  of  a  woman's 
heart  himself,  kissed  bdaine.  without  speaking, 
and,  turning  his  back  u[)on  the  women,  walked 
down  the  gravel  path  to  the  roadside  and  un- 
lethered  the  team. 


82 


EMBERS 


When  his  wife  joined  hihi.  Iii<  eve>  had 
tell-tale    iioistnes.v  and  he  dared  no\   truss   his 
voice  to  speech. 

They   had   left    the   little   '   '  v   several     in'les 
hehind. 

A  few  faint  stars  were  out. 

The  wind  had  risen. 

The  Richelieu  was  lashin^^  die  river  l)ank, 
t^ruinhlini^-  loudly. 

P>a])tiste  hroui^hl  i1ie  '  tr^e-^  l<i  a  sto])  and. 
turnins^  lo  .Manmian  I  .e  l.ianc- 

"Shall  we  iurn  round  and  go  back  for  her?" 
he  asked.  Something-  lells  me  this  is  a  bad 
bu-iness.  atter  all.  Alamn;  n,  and  it's  Loing  to 
be  dreadfully  loriCNonie  without  "la  Petite.' 
W  hat  do  you  say.  MauDuan — shall  we  turn 
back?" 

■■]  think  we  would  do  bciier  lo  lea\e  her 
ihere  till  next  werk.  and  see.  then,  what  she 
think-  about  it."  replied  the  wife.  ■"Br,  .  I  see 
now  how  lonesome  li's  going  to  be.  IJaptiste." 

"As  you  say."  sighed  the  man.  inilling  on 
the  reins  and  turning  off  on  the  pike  that  led 
to  La.salle. 

The  home  was  very  lonely  without  bilaiue. 
who  was  the  onlv  child. 


KMIJERS 


S.3 


riic  hi'st   week  seemed  an  eterniU'  wiiliom 


ler 


And  when  'rimr-day    eanie,    at    last,  which 

was  \isiunj2^  cia\  at  the  eonxent.  ii  \\;is  witli  the 

full  expectation  ui  hrini^ini;-  her  hack  home  that 

ihe  Le  Hlancs  set  out  t'.  ir  Saint  Athanase. 

r.ut  iliey  found  their  dau.ii;-hte:-  well  pleased 

!ih  the  new  life,  and  unwillinj;;-  to  ^ive  it  up. 


w 


ti'  i\'iurn  lo  I  .asalle. 

.So.  once  more  they  dro\e  hack  alone,  a  great 
\()id  in  their  hearts. 

'  )ne  (lav  Le  Blanc  came  in   from  (he  fields 


:iter 


than 


usual 


1  le  had  little  to  sa_\"  during  su])per. 
lie   lighted   his   pipe   and   crossed   his   legs 
in  front  of  the  hlazing  hearth. 

.\hamman  Le  Blanc  wa<  clearing  away  the 
lahle.  singing  an  >)ld  l-'rencli  song  at  her  work: 
"L'n  Canadien  errant 
Banni  de  son  I'oyer 
Parcourait  en  pleurant 


De 


s  pays  eirangers. 


"f  say.  Maninian."  said  I5aptiste,  hreaking 
his  long  silence,  "what  ihink  }-ou  of  this  educa- 
tion husint  ^s,  anyhow?  Vou  think  it's  really 
worth  while?" 


v^'^V 


84 


EMliERS 


Tlie  wife  lunied  to  Baptisle: 

"Worth  while?  W'hv,  \e<,  nf  course,  Bap- 
tiste.  Bui,  what  arc  you  iliinkiuj^^  of?  Maybe 
I  don't  i^et  your  meauiui;." 

"1  mean  Elaine.  She's  ^oi  t'our  years  to  go, 
ovcr  there,  and  I've  hern  thinkini;  wiiat  will  it 
amount  to  in  the  end?  Will  she  he  nearer  to  us 
or  farthei-  away — 1  mean  in  the  heart,  you 
know.  \'ou  saw  wliat  one  week  did — one* 
short  week;  sh-  preferred  the  place  to  us.  Of 
course.  I  know  she  loves  us;  but,  I  say,  what 
will  it  come  to  four  years  from  now?  Will  she 
1)0  content  to  live  here  on  the  fa'-m ;  to  wed  in 
l.asalle;  and  bear  children  to  a  man  who.  as 
there  are  many  hereabouts,  has  no  :.,^reater  idea 
of  life  than  U)  eat.  drink  and  <^o  to  bed  with 
his  wife?  1  fear,  Mamman,  we  iiave  done  un- 
wisely for  'la  Petite.'  and  in  saying  that  I  mean 
for  her  own  good.  Maybe  we  have  done  much 
lo  make  her  unhappv." 

"My  dear,  you  always  did  run  far  ahead  to 
meet  trouble,  and  so  you  are  doing  now.  It  is 
the  best  thing  for  I':iaine.  It  can  not  hurt  her. 
And  as  for  her  marriage,  when  the  time  comes, 
she  can  find  a  suitor,  easily  encnigh,  among  the 
young  professionals.       She  is   a   very   loving 


EM15ERS 


85 


child  and  I  tan  not  \n\\  hclicvo  she  will  aUvavs 
be  the  same  lo  us." 

liaptiste  lai)sed  into  silence  .ij^ain,  and  Mani- 
nian  look  up  the  thread  of  her  soni;": 
"I'n  jour,  irisle  et  pensif. 
Assis  aux  bord  des  flots 
Au  courant  fut;^itii" 

II  addressait  ccs  mots." 
Maurice  corresponded  with  I^laine. 
The  latter  was  very  much  taken  up  with  the 
life  of  the  convent  and  was  fond  of  the  sisters 
who.  she  said,  were  very  ^ijood  and  kind. 

Her  father  and  mother  were  weekly  \i-itor> 
at  the  convent  and  saw  to  it  thai  she  wauled  (or 


notiunj^. 


She  was  ^'■ettinL;■  aloni;'  splendidly  in  her 
.-ludies,  and  was,  indeed,  \ery  hai)p}',  only  for 
the  thouy^ht  of  him,  Maurice,  for  whom  she 
fell,  at  times,  very  lonesome. 

1  ler  letters  usually  terminated  in  an  outburst 
of  naive  confidences  as  lo  the  tuiure  and  sintple 
expressions  of  her  attachment  for  him. 

Sometimes  she  would  enclose  the  picture  of 
a  saint,  an  "Agnus  Dei,"  or  a  little  medal, 
which  she  had  purchased  for  him  at  the  store- 
in  the  convent. 

And  Maurice  sent  her  'jifis  in  kind. 


CHAPTj-,R  si:\i:x. 


Vouv  years  passed  (juickly  enouci^li. 

Maurice  apijlied  himself  (lili,<;ently  to  his 
sliuHes  and  proj^resscd.  by  slow  dej^recs,  lo  an 
enviable  position  of  excellence  in  class  standing;. 

lii  the  final  examinations  in  "Rhetoric."  he 
(hvided  honors  with  a  I'rench  student  from 
Sorel. 

Two  years  remained  for  him  in  "Philoso- 
ph}'." 

i'^lair.c  had  tinished  her  four-\ear  coi'.r>e. 

She  was  the  belle  of  the  convent,  a  maid  of 
ijueenly  bearinL,^ 

The  red  hair  of  the  child  had  turned  to  bur- 
nished g^old. 

The  large,  blue  e)  i'^  seen-  'd  to  have  sunken 
deeper  beneath  the  long,  uiack  lashes. 

And  the  form  of  her,  slim  and  willowy,  har- 
monized with  her  grace ''ul  step,  like  the  cadence 
of  xoluptuous  music. 

(861 


IiMl'.ERS 


87 


Maurice  and  ["Jainc  had  uritlcn  but  liltlc  to 
cacli  other  in  the  last  year. 

A  birthday  letter  and  one  at  b'.a-^ter — that 
was  all. 

There  had  l)een  no  eslranj4"enient. 

It  was  but  the  natural  death  of  a  childhood 
love. 

I'.Iaine  had  ^rc-wn  to  be  more  reserved,  or 
I)erhaj)s,  less  exjjressive  of  her  feelinj^s,  as  she 
|)ri>L!ressed  in  \ears.  which  was  to  be  exf)ectcd 
in  one  of  her  ^cx. 

Maurice  had  i^iven  much  t!iouL;"ht.  of  late,  to 
the  ([uestion  of  his  future. 

I  le  leaned  to  the  priesthood;  but  did  not  feel 
Hire  of  the  \ocation. 

I'ather  Savard  was  now  attached  to  the  col- 
l'j.i"e.     Maurice  consulted  him  fre(|uently. 

lOj^ether  ihey  took  Ioul;"  walks  on  the  prome- 
nade overlooking  the  ])layiL;Tounds.  Time  after 
lime,  the  pair  went  over  the  subject  of  young 
Ro(lray's  future  life  work. 

But  they  never  seemed  to  reach  a  solution  of 
the  trying  problem. 

Savard  would  say: 

'"Of  course,  you  know,  my  dear  Maurice,  thai 
1  can  only  do  so  much  and  that  then  and  there 


ss 


K.Mr.KKS 


mv  (lnt\  si'als  mv  lii)'.  I  can  n'>t  make  \hv 
ik'ci->i('n  ff)r  vou.  It  il  were  onW  a  matter  nt 
dccidinj;  hctwci-n  l,i\\  and  incfliciiK',  it  would 
l)c  a  coni|)arativc'l\  c'a~\  matter.  Hut  between 
the  world  and  the  |)rie>lli<">d  oi  (lod — oh.  mv 
^on,  that  i.s  a  very  dilTerent  thin:^.  and  1  would 
not  ha\e  it  upon  n)y  -~(»ul  to  ha\e  ad\'ise(l  you 
wrouf.:^." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  Mauriee  would  say  in 
reply.   "lUit.  if  il  were  only  L;i\en  me  to  .see!" 

The  end  of  the  schola.>tie  year  found  him  in 
the  same  uncertain  frame  of  mind. 

lie  dared  not  make  decision. 

And  when  the  college  closed  it>  door>  for  the 
sum'mer  \acation,  he  turned  once  more  towar'ls 
Lasalle,  perturbed  in  spirit  and  racked  with  a 
thousand  doubts. 

(leorj^c  met  him  at  the  station. 

The  father  had  been  stricken  with  apoplexy 
that  day,  while  hoeinj^  in  the  jj^arden. 

There  had  been  three  doctors  at  the  house 
the  greater  part  of  the  day. 

They  thought  he  would  live. 

"Father  hasn't  done  much  w  ith  the  farm  this 
year,"  said  (jeorge.  ""1  told  him  in  April  that  I 
wanted  to  go  to  college  this  coming"  fall  and  it 


i-:Mi5b:k> 


89 


vccuicd  to  break  him  all  up.  lie  liaMi't  taken 
niiuh  heart  in  anything  >>inee.  He  say>^  the 
eonnlrv's  ,i,^nin|Li^  to  the  devil.  The  harns  and 
stahles  need  a  enal  of  paiiU,  hnt  he\  kept  put 
tini;  it  off  all  sprintj;'.  sayinj^  he  doesn't  see  the 
n'^e.  "^\\a^  all  I  eonld  do  to  i^et  him  to  repau' 
the  fences  where  the  vails  had  been  broken  and 
cattle  were  straying  into  the  fields." 

When  they  reached  the  house,  P'athcr  Xa- 
deau  was  there.  I  le  siiook  Maurice  warmly  by 
the  hand 

■'Vou  must  come  to  see  me.  Maurice";  he 
said.  "It  is  lime  you  and  1  were  haxin.i,'-  a  little 
talk  about  the  luture." 

Then  he  tip-toed  his  wa>   to  the  front  duor 
and  closed  it  softly  behind  him. 

The  father  lay  upon  the  bed. 

The  merest  movements  of  the  white  covering; 
betrayed  a  lins^erins;-  spark  of  life. 

'1  he  face  was  cadaverous;  the  skin  tii^ht  and 
drawn  and  of  a  pasty  pallor;  the  lii)s  puri)lish. 

The  eyes  were  closed. 

About  the  head  the  long  white  hair  accentu- 
ated the  death-like  features  of  the  man. 

Maurice  shuddered  at  the  sii;hl  of  this,  his 
father. 


MICROCOPY    RESOIUTION    TEST    CHART 

ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2: 


1.0 


12.8 


I.I 


1.25 


It  i^ 

I:  1^ 


1.4 


lll'l  2-5 
II  2.2 

12.0 
1.8 

1.6 


^  .APPLIED  irvl^GE     1,-ic 

^^  'Hii   Easl   Main  SIree' 

r^^  -Rochester,    New    <ork         14609       USA 

'-=  716)    482  -  0300  -  Phone 

^=  716)    288  -  5989  -  Fa. 


9(J 


E^■r.ERS 


i 


Mrs.  Rodray  entered  the  sick  r(^()ni  and  beck- 
oned liini  a\va\'. 

"Oil.  my  s'>n,"  she  he.i^an,  "what  a  time  1 
ha\e  liad  witli  liimi  lie  haMi't  the  heart  of  a 
stone.  Wn-  months  lie  has  done  nothing  hut 
rail  at  scliools  and  colleges.  .And  he  says  the 
jjriests  are  to  blame  for  the  land  being  aban- 
doned. He  says  they  encourage  the  young  men 
to  leave  the  farms  and  go  to  college  in  the  city. 
And  he  blames  me  for  your  going  awav,  and 
says  I  am  putting  it  into  (leorge's  head  to  do 
the  same.  And  tliere's  Alice,  going  to  be  mar- 
ried this  August.  And  here  [  am.  alone,  with 
iiim  this  way  on  my  hands,  without  so  much  as 
a  kind  word,  or  a  soul  to  help  me!" 

Maurice  heard  her  out  in  silence.  When  she 
had  done,  he  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"Have  you  anything  to  eat?  I  declare  J  am 
famished." 

And  when  meat  was  laid  u])on  the  table: 
"And  now,"  said  he.  "I  beg  of  you.  let  us  talk 
of  something  i)leasant."' 

Alice  blushed  and  told  of  her  approaching 
marriage. 

The  bridegroom  to  l)e  was  the  son  of  a  pros- 
perous farmer    in    the    neighboring    j)arish  of 


EMBERS 


91 


Saint  X'alcnlinc  and  himself  a  young  notary 
in>t  out  of  the  university. 

His  name  was  Francois  Gregoirc. 

I  ie  was  a  tall,  \\ell-l)uilt  fellow  of  mild  man- 
ner. 

The  Rodrays  were  pleased  with  the  match. 

Alice  was  desperately  in  love. 

She  sat  at  the  parlor  window  for  an  hour  or 
two  hefore  the  time  appointed  for  his  visits, 
gazing  anxiously  down  the  pike  that  led  from 
Saint  Valentine,  her  fingers  nervously  thrum- 
ming the  wind(wv  sill,  or  opening  and  closing 
a  little  black  silk  tan  which  Maurice  had  sent 
her  from  the  city. 

Mrs.  Rodray  had  telegrai)lied  for  Ann.  the 
eldest  daughter,  who  was  living  with  her  hu.s- 
hand  in  Ouehec. 

The  couple  had  been  married  five  years  and 
had  already   three  children,   two  girls  and  a 

1)0\'. 

They  were  looking  for  another  in  the  fall. 

Thev  had  not  prospered. 

They  lived  from  hand  to  mouth  in  a  crazy, 
weather-beaten  tenement  in  Irishtown,  near 
ihe  river  front. 

liugh    O'Malley,    die    husband,    had    aban- 


92 


EMBERS 


Fl 


TV 


(loncd  the  strenuous  life  of  a  trax  eliuQ-  auction- 
eer to  stay  at  home  and  be  closer  to  his  wife,  as 
he  j)ut  it. 

He  cared  little  for  what  he  termed  '"the  lux- 
uries and  jKnnposities  of  life,"  and  it  must  he 
said  that  he  saw  \-ery  little  of  them. 

lie  professed  himself  thoroui^hly  hai)i)v  with 
Ann. 

I  le  reeled  honie  drunk  three  or  four  times  a 
week  with  a  lump  of  beef  or  mutton  under  hi', 
arm  and  a  j)ai)er-back  novel  for  his  wife,  whom 
he  conciliated  with  the  j^ift;  for  Ann  had  not 
lost  her  love  for  the  heroes  of  Romance. 

With  the  baby  nursing-  at  her  breast  and  the 
two  older  ones  roll  ins;-  at  her  feet  or  tuc-^inii 
at  her  skirts,  she  would  sit,  by  the  hour,  her 
work  undone,  and  the  rooms  in  frightful  disor- 
der, and  read  to  the  '•jinis"  the  latest  peace 
offering  of  her  bibulous  lord. 

She  was  eternally  with  child. 

"Give  me  a  potful  of  potatoes."  O'Malley 
would  say  to  his  intimates,  "and  a  fat  jug  of 
ale  and  my  wife— and  the  devil  take  the  rest ! 
Let  the  young  ones  come  as  fast  as  they  like; 
that's  God's  business,  and  I'm  only  his  servant, 
to  be  sure." 


KMBERS 


*-K^ 


They  had  not  gone  l)ack  to  Lasalle  since 
(heir  wedding. 

The  Rodravs  knew  httle  of  their  affairs. 

'Hie  telegram  was  dehvered  to  Ann  while 
( )'M alley  was  away  from  the  hotise. 

She  took  it  down  to  the  dock  where  lie  was 
ci]-,ployed  as  a  tally  clerk. 

I  le  read  the  message  over  several  times  with- 
f>nt  speaking. 

"Well,"  said  Ann,  finally,  "can  I  go?" 

"Can  you  go?  To  he  sure,  yon  can!  And 
so  will  I — and  the  lot  of  us!" 

"But,  the  fare?  Can  you  raise  the  money  to 
take  us?" 

"Leave  that  to  me,  Annie  dear.  It'll  be  a 
cold  day  when  I  can't  get  you  as  far  as  Lasalle. 
And  where  you  are,  it's  my  duty  to  be,  likewise, 
to  he  sure." 

A  second  telegram  was  sent  the  O'Malleys 
the  night  of  Maurice's  arrival  at  Lasalle. 

The  message  said  it  would  not  be  necessary 
to  come  home,  as  the  elder  Rodray  was  now  out 
of  danger. 

But  the  O'Malleys  were  now  on  their  wa\. 

They  had  taken  tlie  night  steamer  for  Mon- 
treal. 


94  EMBERS 

Tlu'v  arrived  at  l.aNalle  the  f()Il(nviniJ:  nitrht. 
llic  Rodravs  had  rt'ccixed  no  word  of  their 


coming^. 


Tlierc  was  no  one  to  meet  llieni  at  tlie  sta- 
tiV)n. 

So  they  walked  the  three  miles  lo  the  homc- 
>t(.ad. 

They  were  a  pathetic  si.^hi  a^  t]ie\  left  the 
pike  and  turned  up  the  j^raxel  driveway  to  the 
house. 

Ann.  in  a  che;i]).  faded,  hlack  dres^,  trudt^vd 
I.ehind  ( )'Alalley.  holding;-  the  hahe  in  her  arms. 
There  was  a  careless  droo])  in  her  lioiire  and 
her  hair,  from  beneath  a  disreputable  bonnet, 
showed  itself  to  he  sadl>-  in  need  of  the  comb. 

O'AIalley  went  ahead.  leadiniLC  the  oldest  i^irl 
by  the  hand  and  carrying-  the  other  in  his  arms. 

His  trousers  came  above  his  ankles  and  the 
coat  was  very  short  in  the  skirt  and  at  the 
sleeves. 

The  suit  was  of  a  qreeni'^h  black,  worn  slick 
and  shiny. 

A  narrow  white  collar,  almost  entirelv  hid- 
den by  a  ready-made,  black  bandd)ow,  sur- 
mounted a  white  shirt,  which  was  streaked  with 
the  soil  of  travel. 


w^ 


EMBERS 


95 


The  cIiiKlren  wore  wliilc  muslin  bonnets  that 
barely  hunj^-  onto  ilic  backs  ol'  their  heads,  so 
small  they  were  and  insufricicnt. 

The  two  ^irls  wore  little  black  shoes  of  thick, 
stiff  leather,  with  copper  toes. 

Their  dresses,  of  coarse  white  nui>lin.  bore 
unmistakable  stains  of  the  jonrney. 

On  making'  the  turn  from  the  pike,  they 
found  themselv      in  ])lain  view  of  the  house. 

O'Mallev  sto])pe(l  and  craned  his  neck  anx- 
iously, expecting-  to  see  crepe  on  the  front  door. 

'Tie's  not  dead  yet.""  he  remarked  to  his  wife, 
and  they  struggled  on  towards  the  house. 

^laurice  met  them  in  the  doorway. 

I  lis  face  changed  expression  at  sight  of 
them. 

1 'overt V  was  stamped  in  every  line  of  their 
faces,  in  everv  shred  of  their  wretched  gar- 
ments. 

There  was  more  than  that :  ()"Malley"s  face 
had  taken  on  the  puffed  and  bruised  appear- 
ance of  the  sot,  and  his  breath  stank  as  he 
spoke. 

"Why.  son.  you've  grown,  to  be  sure — 
sprouted  like  a  weed  since  I  saw  you,  five  years 
ago,  ploughing  the  oat  field."' 


hi 


96 


EMBERS 


And,  pointing-  to  his  I'.iiiiily  b^-liiinl  hiii.: 
■■|k'rc'>  the  younj^cr  jT^eneration,  sonny,  and 
\-onr  own  -isicr  Ann.  And  how's  iIr-  scjuire? 
\\  f'\c  hecn  worried  so  alioin  him.  Better,  say 
\ou  1  \\  ch,  now,  thiat's  .^ood.  lo  he  sm-e.  Annie, 
j^iil.  your  lather'shetter;  isn't  tliat  tine. now?" 

Ann,  who  had  hi^-.^ed  hehind,  h.id  now  re- 
joined her  hushand  on  the  \eranda. 

.She  kissed  Maurice  and  asked  ahoui  her 
fatlier. 

Alice  came  runnin.i;-  down  th.c  hallway  from 
the  kitchen  and  ]Mrs.  Rodray  emerged  from 
Iier  hcdrooni.  (ieorge,  who  had  hecn  pulling 
lettuce  for  sui)])cr,  saw  the  i)arty  on  the  veranda 
and  came  hurrying  over  from  the  g-arden,  a 
large  hunch  of  the  tender  green  leaves  in  his 
hands. 

When  the  greetings  were  over,  (ieorsfe  fol- 
lowed  Alice  into  the  kitchen. 

The  latter  looked  at  the  lettuce  and  said: 

"That  won't  he  half  enough;  you  had  hetter 
go  for  more." 

The  following  day,  Sunday,  Maurice  drove 
alone  to  church. 

He  arrived  during  the  "Kyrie"  and  was  the 
center  of  attention  as  he  walked  up  the  main 


EMBERS 


97 


;iisle  to  the  Rodray  pew.  near  the  coninnmion 
tahle. 

After  the  service,  he  went  to  the  sacristy  to 
acquaint  I'^ather  Xadeau  with  his  father's  con- 
(Htion. 

On  leavine:  the  priest,  he  came  around  to 
the  front  of  the  church,  where  he  came  face  to 
face  with  Elaine  Lc  Blanc. 

She  was  waiting  her  father,  who  had  some 
husiness  with  the  notary. 

Their  faces  underwent  a  chans^e  as  they  met. 

They  appeared  very  different  to  each  other, 
now,  from  the  lad  and  the  i;\v\  of  the  old  days. 

There  was  the  merest  interval  of  embarass- 
ment. 

Maurice  was  the  first  to  speak: 

••\\  hv,  Elaine,  I  would  hardly  have  known 
you!" 

lie  came  nearer  and  held  out  his  hand. 

She  was  very  charming,  in  her  simple  dress 
of  softly  tinted  organdie. 

The  sun  played  in  her  glorious  auburn  hair. 

She  held  a  blue  silk  parasol  at  the  tips  of  her 
white-gloved  fingers,  like  a  fairy  queen,  hold- 
ing a  wand. 

They  were  man  and  woman  now. 


■«BB^»«iHHHH 


98 


EMP.ERS 


n, 


i! 


The  border  line  had  hcon  crossed,  and  the 
sex  in  tlieiii  had  (juickencd  into  dangerous 
flame. 

Little  was  said. 

They  fed  upon  each  other's  eyes. 

There  was  an  indefinite,  subconscious  strug- 
gle  in  their  niind.s. 

Their  hearts  were  beating  fast. 

They  felt  that  something  strange  and  here- 
tofore unknown  to  them  was  taking  place 
within  them. 

The  carriage  of  the  Le  Rlancs  appeared  at 
the  foot  of  the  long  walk. 

"I  shall  be  over  after  dinner,"  said  Maurice. 

"We  shall  be  glad  to  have  you."  sbe  replied, 
smiling,  as  she  turned  towards  the  waiting  car- 


nage. 


Maurice  found  his  father  much  improved. 

He  was  now  able  to  sit  up  in  bed  and  talk 
in  a  low,  uncertain  voice. 

"I  am  glad  to  have  you  home,  Maurice,"  he 
said,  with  that  simplicity  which  was  character- 
istic of  the  man. 

Maurice  brought  him  a  tumbler  of  cold 
water  and  arranged  the  pillows. 

Then  the  father  spoke  again : 


t-i,, 


EMBERS 


99 


"My  son.  I  may  not  be  hm^  for  this  world. 
Ilavc'you  decided  what  you  arc  ^<nn^  to  do?" 

"Not  as  yet,  father.  I  hope  to  come  to  a  de- 
cision soon." 

"Well,  go  slowly,  Maurice;  don't  leap  in  the 

dark." 


Cfl.\I'Ti:K    I'.KillT 


r-ai)tistc  \.v  r.lanc  was  sniokin.t;  Iiis  pipe  on 
tile  tVunl  p,M-ch  when  Alanrice  drove  np  in  front 
o}  ilie  house. 

"Ah,   AlnnMeur   .Maurice!"  c.xclaiiMcd    Bap- 

tiste,  risino-  in.ni  his  chair  and  coniin-  forward 

to    meet    youn-    Roch-ay.      "I'm    nu-ohtv    -lad 

you  ve  conic.     Manunan  and  la  Petite  and  niv- 

selt.  we've  all  heen  talkin-  .ahout  vou.     Con'ie 

into  the  house.  Monsieur  Maurice— walk  right 

in.     .Sapristi !  how  he's  filled  out !     I  say,  Mani- 

ninn.  what  think  you  of  him  now?" 

Mrs.  Le  lUanc  <;rceted  Maurice  affection- 
ately. 

"P.lcss  nie.  he's  too  hiq-  to  kiss,  now;  my 
P.aptiste  would  he  jealous."  she  said,  lauHiin"- 
hcartily.  '^ 

"Xo,  f  wouldn't,"  rejoined  the  man,  good- 
naturedly;  "kiss  him  if  you  want  to,  Mamman." 

J':iaine,  who  had  heen  upstairs,  entered  the 
room  at  this  moment. 

[looj 


KMliERS 


101 


P.,'ij)tisti>  wont  out  .'111(1  rcturnc'l  presently 
witli  a  Ixittle  ot'  lli^  nwn  \inl;ii;e.  and  "Mam- 
man"  cut  intd  a  l)iu,'.  iroNtecj  cake,  in  iKUior  of 
the  i;nest. 

Then  Maurice  a-ked  h'.laine  U)  qo  for  a  (iri\'e. 

"W  h\',  of  Course,  ^he  will  l;o,"  hroke  in  Iki])- 
tiste.  sla])])in,L,^  hi^  thiL;h.  "Mow  could  .she  re- 
fu-^e  her  "caNalier'?" 

They  turned  off  on  the  road  to  the  Toinl,  a 
prettv  town  on  the  edi;e  of  Lake  I'hamplain. 

The  lonL,^  .straight  i)ike  wa.s  shaded,  the 
greater  pari  of  the  way,  with  the  overhan^ini; 
hranches  of  i;ianl  oaks  and  maples. 

The  dust  lay  very  thick,  and  rose  hehind 
them  like  a  cloud  of  yellow  smoke. 

Aloni;'  the  wav  the  ditches  and  the  road- 
hanks  were  hidden  heneath  an  interminable 
stretch  of  elder  bloom. 

Lar<;e  Hocks  of  L^eese  ([uacked  spitefully, 
opened  their  bills  and  snread  their  wings. 

Dogs  came  out  from  the  farmhoitses,  bark- 
ing indolently  at  the  passing  carriage,  and  re- 
trt'ated  int(^  the  shade  of  the  buildings. 

The  sun  was  very  hot. 

Xot  a  leaf  stirred. 

Maurice  and  Mlaine  exchanged  experiences 
of  their  lives  awav  from  home. 


102 


EMBERS 


H! 


They  chatted  faniiharly. 

The  stranj^eness  of  a  few  hours  ago  had  en- 
tirely disappeared. 

They  were,  once  more,  on  the  old  footing"  of 
intimate  friemlship. 

They  drove  through  the  little  town  on  the 
American  frontier  and  came,  presently,  to  tlie 
uike. 

It  looked  like  i  sea  of  glass,  so  transparent 
and  motionless  it  was. 

Out  upon  the  blue  water,  white  sails  glim- 
mered here  and  there,  like  the  wings  of  great 
sea  birds. 

Along  the  beach,  birds  dip])ed  dieir  bills 
silently  into  the  water  and  resought  Uie  grate- 
ful shelter  of  the  woods  that  skirted  the  shore. 

The  heat  was  now  crushing  in  its  intensity. 

"I  am  afraid  to  start  back,"  said  Maurice, 
"on  account  of  the  horse:  he  might  go  down 
under  the  iieat.  ^.\'q  can  spread  a  robe  under 
a  tree  in  the  woods  and  look  out  upon  the  lake. 
In  a  couple  of  hours  the  sun  will  weaken." 

Elaine  agreed  readily  to  this,  and  the  horse 
was  tethered  to  a  shady  maple  on  the  edge  of 
the  road. 


EMBERS 


103 


They  had  retreated  from  the  merciless  heat 
of  the  beach  into  the  shade  of  the  woods. 

Maurice  fetched  the  rohe  and  spread  it  upon 
the  ground  at  the  foot  of  a  towering  oak. 

Here  they  seated  themselves. 

They  sat  for  a  long  while  watching  the  sails 
and  the  wide  expanse  beyond,  where  the  sky 
seemed  to  bend  and  kiss  the  waters. 

^Maurice  had  taken  Maine's  hand. 

It  lay  in  his,  contented. 

And  now,  a  strong  and  sudden  change  came 
over  him. 

The  blood  shot  to  his  head. 

His  heart  beat  wildly. 

He  wanted  to  fling  aside  this  woman's  hand 
that  was  burning  him  with  a  strange  fire,  the 
like  of  which  he  had  never  felt  before. 

He  made  a  vain  effort  to  rise,  for  he  wished 
with  all  the  strength  left  in  him  to  rush  away 
from  her. 

But  the  small  white  hand,  lying  there  in  his, 
held  him. 

She  was  gazing  out  upon  the  lake. 
In  the  branches  of  a  maple,  near  by,  doves 
cooed. 

The  earth  was  dreaming. 


104 


EMBERS 


The  air  wns  hurtheiied  with  t!ie  wild  and 
passionate  son<^'  of  love's  awakening. 


M< 


The  scarlet  sun  was  sinkini,^  into  tlie  western 
edge  of  the  lake. 

A  delicious  coolness  was  in  the  air. 

The  waters  lapped  the  heach  rocks  fretfully. 

Th.e  white  sails  rocked  uneasily  upon  the 
trouhled  waters. 

"Shall  we  go'"  asked  the  woman,  her  arms 
ahout  the  neck  of  the  man. 

"Yes,  dearest,"  he  replied. 

She  drew  him  to  her  and  held  hi^  face  in 
both  her  hands. 

Her  great  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Maurice,  oh,  Maurice!"  she  sobbed. 

"Don't  weep,  dear  heart,"  he  said,  and  kissed 
her  tenderly  upon  the  lips. 

A  storm  was  hanging,  black  and  onn'nous, 
in  the  sky,  when  they  reached  home. 

Baptiste  and  Mamman  Le  Blanc  were  on  the 
front  porch. 

"Ah,  there  they  are  at  last!"  exclaimed  Bap- 
tiste. "Parbleu!  I  was  beginning  to  fear  the 
storm  would  overtake  vou." 


CHAPTER    NINE 


Maurice  went  to  his  room  without  supper. 
The  storm  broke   with  terrific   fury,   slam- 
mini?  the  doors  and  ratthng  the  w  indows. 

Big  guns  boomed  in  the  heavens  and  hind 
flamel  danced  in  the  blackness  without,  lick- 
ing the  tops  of  the  drenched  and  bending  trees. 
^Maurice  locked  the  door  and  diew  a  chair 
over  to  the  window. 
He  watched  the  storm. 
The  raging  elements  seemed  strangly  in  ac- 
cord with  his  own  warring  emotions. 
What  had  he  done? 

Was  this  the  end  of  his  ambitions,  the  col- 
lapse of  his  "chateau  en  Espagne,"  the  blast- 
ing of  his  hopes? 

Had  tlie  act  been  of  his  volition? 

Had  he  not  resisted  with  what  will-power  he 

possessed? 

Certainly  his  mind  had  had  no  part  in  the 

deed. 

[105] 


106 


EMBERS 


^ 


if! 


m 


"P)iit,  I^lainc — was  he  not  ans\veral)le  to  her 
— he  the  stronLjj'er  one? 

Was  slie  aware  of  the  l)attle  he  had  waged 
a^ninst  the  flesh? 

Would  she  understand? 

Could  she  for_G;-ive? 

( )r  would  she  insist  upon  the  perfornu  nee  to 
whieh  she  stood  justly  entitled? 

What  would  his  father  say?  his  niothc,  the 
impetuous  Haptiste — and  Maninian  Le  Blanc 
— if  it  were  known? 

What  would  they  think  at  the  college — the 
professors  and  the  scholars  ? 

In  fine,  what  was  his  duty? 

Supi)osing  his  vocation  to  he  the  priesthood, 
which  was  the  straight  and  honorahle  course 
of  action  now:  to  marry  Elaine  or  forge  ahead, 
weighted  down  hy  his  sin.  to  the  altar  of  the 
Eucharist  ? 

He  fell  upon  his  knees  hy  the  side  of  the  hed 
and  huried  his  face  in  his  arms. 

He  pra}ed  long  and  fervently. 

When  he  rose  to  his  feet  agam,  a  round, 
white  moon  was  starin-  into  the  room. 

The  skv  was  hright  with  the  light  of  mvriad 
stars. 


EMBERS 


107 


Onlv,  far  to  the  north,  a  black  strip  of  cloud 

Nvas  driflinp:  hurriedly  away. 
There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 
:rRoc,rav..,a,cr..lK.re,es.n.han 

„„,„,in„,,K.rl1atl.o.M.r.MnsamltaUmgrai, 

"'nc-  hands  were  clasped  over  her  stomach. 
Slie  beckoned  Maurice  t..  lollow. 
m.    went  downstairs  to  the  J-"S-ro™- 
\  ice  was  setting  a  cold  chicken  on  the  tab.c. 
S^  1.    ked  both  doors  leading  into  the  roon, 
,,;a     .oin,  over  to  the  sideboar.l.  drew  out  a 
Ctle  oi  ^vine  and  placed  it  l,es,de  the  fowl. 
Thev  ate  in  silence  for  some  time. 
Thin,  Mrs.  Rodray.  no  longer  able  to  con- 
tain herself,  broke  out:  .,-.,^,  Were 
"Well  what  do  you  thuik,  Maurice,    nvc 
wen,                 .  ^g  to 
saddled  now,  in  earnest.     Hey   are 

,-1,      \  nil  had  no  sooner  leiu, 

:;• ;  rr;;t  c)>u,i:;;  hitches  tn.  and 

\n  ^he  st-ition     And  what  do  you 
,lr  \•o^  down  to  i.ne  sianon.  -^  .    ^ 

:';;;:.  ,.  brought  back  m  t,.  w.gon.  two 

oj  it  off,  O'Malley  went  "owntown  be  ore  th 
storm,  and  has  just  come  home  as  drunk 


108 


EMBERS 


hi 


a  lord!  Oh.  tliis  is  too  much  to  1)car,  Maurice. 
Tell  nie,  what  are  we  s^oinii^  to  do?  Is  there 
no  way  to  rret  lid  of  them  ?" 

"Vou  would  do  well  to  let  them  have  their 
visit  out."  re])lied  Maurice,  "for  we  must  re- 
memhcr  that  Ann  is  one  of  ourselves.  But,  are 
you  sure  he  was  drunk?" 

"lie  couldn't  he  any  drunker  and  walk."  said 
Alice. 

"Well,"  rejoined  Maurice,  "let  us  wait  a  few- 
days,  till  father  is  ahle  to  s^ct  ahout;  then  we'll 
leave  it  lo  him— he'll  not  fool  with  O'Malley." 

"Another  day  like  this."  protected  Mrs.  Rod- 
ray,  weakly,  "mij^ht  he  the  death  of  me.  ( )h. 
the  disgrace  of  it!  The  drunken  sot!  Then, 
the  children,  shrieking  at  the  top  of  their  voices 
and  galloping  over  the  house,  as  if  it  was  a 
barn.  And  Ann  just  laughs  at  them  and  says 
it's  cute." 

She  took  a  sij)  of  the  wine  and  added:  "()h, 
my  son.  I'm  building  so  on  you!  The  dav  of 
your  ordination  will  be  the  hapi)iest  of'mv 
life." 

Maurice  made  no  "eply.  but  went  back  to 
his  room  as  soon  as  he  could  take  himself  off. 

He  went  to  bed,  but  found  it  impossible  to 
sleep. 


EMBERS 


109 


Tlic  £?rav  dawn  was  stcalin.c:  through  tbc 

window  wl'icn  he  at  last  fell  into  a  fit  fill  doze. 

The  children,  romping  in  the  hallway,  awoke 

hini. 

lie  dress^a  and  went  down  to  breakfast. 

( )n  the  w;iy  to  the  dining--rooni,  he  stopped 
in  to  see  his  father. 

The  elder  Rodray  was  sleepinjj^. 

The  face  had  a'sli.^dit   flush   and   the  deep 

lines  were  gone. 

Maurice  drew  the  blinds  and  tiptoed  out  of 

the  room. 

The  others  had  eaten. 

Maurice  partook   sparingly   of   eggs,   toast 

and  cotfee. 

Then  he  went  over  to  the  stables  and  saddled 

a  horse. 

He  was  passing  out  of  the  barn-yard  when  a 
sudden  furore  of  cackling  in  the  hen-house 
arrested  his  attention. 

He  left  the  horse  standing  and  crossed  the 
yard  in  the  direction  of  the  noise. 

A  hen  Hew  over  his  shoulder  as  he  went  in. 

In  a  far  corner  he  saw  a  man  bending  over 
one  of  the  nests. 

On  the  floor,  egg  shells  were  scattered  about. 


HO 


EMIiERS 


Maurice    kicked    the  wall    lightly    with  his 


i)()()t. 

The  man  turned  around  abruptly. 
It  was  O'Malley. 

"Hello,  there.  Maurice,"  said  he.  affecting 
to  be  not  the  least  disconcerted;  "I'm  sanipliui^ 
the  eggs.  I  iust  suck  'em.  you  know.  A  hole 
here  and  a  hole  there  and  a  pinch  of  salt  and 
there  you  are !  I  can  suck  a  dozen  of  'em  with- 
out stopping.  And  what  makes  them  stdl 
better  is  a  dash  or  two  of  the  real  stuff,  whisky 
or  brandy,  with  a  little  sugar  to  tone  it  down. 
My,  oh,  my,  but  you've  got  the  fine  eggs!^  As 
sweet  as  nuts  and  as  big  as  your  fist.  Delicious, 
to  be  sure !" 

Maurice  turned  on  his  heels  and,  walking 
over  to  the  horse,  leaped  astride  and  rode  away. 

He  had  no  intention  of  doing  so  before 
mounting,  but  a  force  stronger  than  himself 
turned  him  towards  the  lake. 

The  parched  roads  had  already  drunk  up  the 
rain. 

The  sun  was  out. 

A  cool  breeze  waved  the  green  fields  of  oats 
and  wheat  and  played  in  the  foliage  of  the 
trees. 


EMBERS 


HI 


The  Lc  r.lanc  house  appeared  deserted. 
The    bhnds    were  drawn  and  no  one    was 

about. 

He  arrived  at  the  lake  about  noon. 

lie  tethered  the  horse  to  a  tree  and  went 
down  to  the  beach. 

He  was  going  over  the  events  ot  the  day 

be 'ore. 

He  climbed  the  slope  and  sought  out  the  tree 
under  which  they  had  been  together. 

The  grass  was  still  trampled. 

Something  glittered  on  the  ground  at  his 

feet. 

He  stooped  down  and  picked  it  up. 

It  was  Elaine's  locket. 

He  opened  it. 

It  contained  two  tintype  photographs,  one 
of  Mam...  n,  the  other  of  Baptiste  Le  Blanc. 

He  close  1  the  locket  and  turned  to  go. 

Then  he  :  topped  short  and  his  hand  went  to 
his  throat:    Elaine  was  coming  through  the 

glade  to  him.  ,     uac       •  ^i" 

'    ^he  said  but  the  one  word :     Maurice 

Then  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 

o-azed  into  his  eyes.  , 

"You  should  not  have  followed  me,    he  said. 
'Tt  will  be  noticed  and  cause  talk." 


i>  i 


112 


EMBERS 


"Follow  you?"  she  replied,  withdrawing; 
from  liini:  "1  came  to  look  for  my  locket!" 

I  le  came  o\er  to  her  .and  took  hoth  her  hands 
in  his. 

"Voii  don't  understand,  hdaine,"  he  said. 
"i5elie\c  me,  I  meant  it  for  }-our  f^ood." 

lie  drew  her  close  to  him  and  kissed  her. 

"Say  you  forgive  UiC."  he  pleaded. 

Elaine  did  not  answer,  hut,  lookim:^  up  iiuo 
his  face,  she  smiled  crladly,  like  a  child,  and 
souq-ht  the  rcfus:;e  of  his  lips  a.G;-ain. 

"Mow  did  you  come?"  he  asked. 

"I  rode  o\er  on  the  white  marc." 

They  sat  down  in  the  same  spot. 

C)ut  U])on  the  lake  the  waters  rolled  lan- 
guidly. 

A  long  string  of  coal  harges  moved  lazily  in 
the  distrmce. 

A  great  streamer  of  hlack  smoke  from  the 
tug  drifted  slowly  towards  the  west. 

White  sails  flitted  ahout,  like  huttcrflies. 

The  hreezc  from  the  lake  came  in  i)layful 
gusts. 

Elaine  was  gazing  far  away,  where  the  sky 
seemed  to  bend  and  kiss  the  waters. 

JMaurice  held  her  hand  in  his. 


EMIiERS 


113 


A  youn^;  bird  llcw  out  over  llic  aVj;^  <>f  the 
lake  .-iiul  (lrM|)])e(l,  lieli)le^->,  into  the  water. 

The  p.ireiit  hird^  hovered  o\er  the  lled.i^hii.i::. 
frantic  and  e(|nally  helpK--;. 

Maurice  thou^lit  he  ^a\v  a  retlection  ot'  him- 
self in  the  traL;edy. 

1  le  had  ceased  to  re^i-^t. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  they  re- 
turned to  l.asalle. 

Ikiptiste,  who  was  coming-  in  from  the  fields, 
hailed  them. 

"Sapristi!  Are  we  to  see  no  more  of  yon, 
Monsieur  Maurice?  It  doesu"!  seem  (|uite  fair 
for  'la  Petite'  to  keep  you  all  to  herself." 

It  had  been  his  intention  to  i^o  home  without 
stoppiuij^.  hut  now  Maurice  .s.iid: 

'T  shall  he  s^lad  t(j  take  supper  with  you,  if 
\ou  sav  the  word." 

"Say  the  word?  Parhleu!  What  need  to 
say  the  word?  You're  as  welcome  as  ITainc 
herself.  Mamman  was  sayinjj;-,  no  later  than 
last  nit^ht  (and  T  aj^reed  with  her)  that  we 
should  have  more  of  your  conii)any." 

When  Maurice  reached  home,  Mrs.  Rodray 
and  Alice  were  on  the  front  porch. 

The  mother  had  been  weeping. 


114 


KMr.KRS 


"More  trouMr.'"  ini|iiiri'(l  Maurice,  strant^^c- 
ly  irritalt'd. 

'•(  )'Malk-y."  said  Alice. 

"Drunk  af^ain,"  hroke  in  the  mother ;  "stai,''- 
j^erini;-.  reehni;  drunk." 

And  now  .Xkuiriee  i.".k  to  si)en(Hn,L;'  most  of 
the  time  with  l.laine. 

The)    took  (h-ives  into  the  couiurv. 

They  would  leave  early  in  the  dav  and  return 
lati-  in  the  at'iernoon  or  at  ni^ht. 

Mrs.  Rodray  and  .Mamman  I.e  Hlanc  prc- 
I-ared  lunches  t'or  the  ])air.  and  Ikaplisie  would 
add  a  holtle  of  his  <'-()()>eherrv  wine,  for  iroud 
luck,  as  he  would  say. 

Maurice  was  no  longer  trouhled  with  scru- 
j)les  as  to  his  conduct  or  its  conse(|Uences. 

lie  went  ahout,  eaiinj;-  .and  drinkinsj;-,  as  if 
nothing-  unusual  had  taken  i)lace  in  his  life. 

lie  sle[)l  .soundly  and  continued  to  rise  late. 

The  elder  Rodray  was  now  uj)  and  ahout. 

lie  was  ([uite  feehle,  as  yet,  and  C(jntented 
himself  with  short  walks  in  the  garden  or  in 
the  fields. 

Sometimes  he  sat  in  his  armchair  under  a 
tree  in  the  orchard. 

1  le  had  changed  greatly  of  late,  and  his  man- 


ICMllERS 


115 


tier  w.t;  more  that  of  a  tinii<l  ^lU'^t  tlirin  of  the 
o\\  inT  of  the  estate. 

1  li>  walk  was  <haky  ami  nnceiMain. 
lli>  hair  wa^  ii<>\\  wvy  white. 
(  )ne  luornitic;-  Matiriee  was  on  his  way  to  the 
.qahles  when  his   father  h.ailed   him   from  the 
potato  field  nearhy.      He   was  knocking  bugs 
off  the  vines  with  his  cane. 

"Maurice,"  he  said,  "have  you    ma<Ie    any 
plans  for  your  future,  as  yet.-'" 

"None  other,  for  the  present,  than  to  tak.- 
'Philosophy'  and  complete  the  course." 
"Ah!" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 
\\illiani  Rodray  picked  a  large  bug  off  a  leaf 
and  placed  it  carefully  ui)on  a  small  tkit  stone 
at  his  feet. 

Then  he  crushed  it  with  his  hoot. 
"And  the  Ix^  Blanc  girl,"  he  continued.  i)ur- 
suing  a  well-defined  line  of  thought;    "what 
are  your    intentions    as    to   her?     I  am    your 
fa.ther.    I  have  a  right  to  know  the  truth. 
Maurice  went  white. 

A  sudden  weakness  struck  him  in  the  knees 
and  began  to  mount  to  his  head. 
Ikit  he  fought  it  off  and  replied: 


V  ' 


116 


EMBERS 


"You  have  no  reason  to  believe  that  my 
intentions  are  anything-  hut  honoral)Ie." 

"^'()U  are  ri^ht.  my  son.  and  I  pray  God  it 
nny  ah\ays  he  so." 

Then,  after  an  interval,  he  added: 

"P)Ut,  I  warn  you,  if  you  must  ])e  a  priest, 
be  a  ^"ood  one." 


CIIAPTKR  TEN. 


"Yrm  ?cc."  said  D'Mallcy  to  Ann,  when  they 
liad  been  in  Lasalle  a  few  days,  "it's  hke  this, 
Annie  dear:  The  squire's  not  hn^^r  for  this 
world,  and  for  the  while  that  remains  for  him 
on  earth,  he's  as  good  as  dead,  so  far  as  work's 
concerned.  Then  there's  Maurice,  who's  facing 
back  to  college  in  September;  and  (korge,  who 
thinks  he's  got  to  go  too.  They  sent  for  us, 
von  know— don't  forget  that — they  tele- 
graphed for  us,  and  here  we  are,  by  Harry, 
boots  and  all!  And  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to 
say  so,  Annie  (as  you're  a  daughter  of  the 
house),  and  we'll  stay  till  it  suits  us  to  leave." 

"It's  the  black  looks.  Hugh,  that  I  can't 
take,"  said  Ann.    "The  food  gags  me." 

"Danm  their  black  looks,  Aimie  girl.  Not  ^i 
one  of  them  had  a  hand  in  the  making  of  the 
monev  hut  the  s(iuire,  as  I  understand,  and  he's 
not  objecting,  is  he?  Leastways,  I  haven't 
heard  of    it,  if    he    is.     And,  besides,  there's 

[1171 


i! 

II' 


118 


EMBERS 


hi 


plenty  of  work  to  he  done  about  tlic  place  that 
will  pay  handsomely  for  the  keep  of  the  lot  of 
us.  Now,  why  can't  I  do  the  work  as  well  as 
a  stran.c^er.  who'd  steal  them  blind?" 

"1  think  it's  the  drink.  Ilu^-h.  that  they're 
objecting-  to  more  than  anythinc;  else.  You 
see.  this  colle^-e  business  seems  to  have  made 
them  miq^hty  uppish,  as  compare:;  o  how  they 
used  to  be  when  I  was  a  ^kl  at  home.  And, 
besides,  you  know  it's  wroiig.  Here  T  am  with- 
out a  stitch  of  decent  clothin.^-  to  m^•  back.  And 
the  children  in  tatters,  (^h.  if  you'd  only 
straig-hten  uj),  I  lui^h,  we  could  .c^et  alcwi;-  well 
enouq-h  without  my  people.  When  I  think  of 
the  one  that's  coming,  and  not  a  penny  to  our 
name,  I  wish  that  I  was  dead!'' 

"Well,  well,  now,  don't  work  yourself  up 
over  it.  Who  knows  what  may  happen  betwixt 
now  and  then?  Don't  take  on  so.  Worry's 
an  old  lodg-er;  but.  for  all  the  time  he's  been  on 
earth  and  meddling  with  i)eople's  business,  I 
don't  know  of  a  single  good  deed  to  his  credit. 
There's  a  fact,  to  be  sure!  Cheer  up,  Annie 
girl,  and  take  my  advice — hold  a  stiller  ui)per 
lip!  I'll  see  the  squire  and  have  a  talk  with 
him  when  he  gets  out  again." 


EMBERS 


119 


O'Mallcy  had  t  ken  advantap^c  of  the  elder 
Rodray's  illness  to  edp^e  in  on  the  work  of  the 
farm  and  the  chores  ahout  the  house. 

None  of  the  family  ohjected  to  this  at  first; 
in  fact,  they  felt  j^rateful  to  O'Malley  for  these 
services,  especially  George,  who  was  lazy  and 
who  was  held  responsible  for  the  work  by  the 
father. 

But  O'Malley  didn't  stop  at  the  daily  routine 
of  the  farm. 

With  hammer  and  saw.  he  went  about  doing 
odd  jobs  here  and  there  over  the  place;  or, 
again,  he  would  be  seen  going  towards  the 
barns  with  a  paint  pot  in  his  hand  and  a  ladder 
under  his  arm. 

He  was  not  long  in  Lasalle  when  he  began 
to  assume  an  air  of  grave  responsibility  in  all 
matters  pertaining  to  the  farm. 

George  now  took  charge  of  the  store,  where 
there  was  less  to  do. 

O'Malley  worked  and  managed  the  farm. 

And  when  the  elder  Rodray  left  his  bed  and 
walked  about  the  grounds,  O'Malley  said  not 
a  word,  but  kept  on  with  his  chores  and  his 
labors,  as  if  this  had  always  been  his  occu- 
pation. 


120 


EMBERS 


W\ 


At  ni^ht  he  went  down  io  the  villas^c  inn. 

He  usually  came  home  late  and  drunk. 

But  he  took  jealous  care  not  to  let  liquor 
interfere  with  his  \\ork. 

']"he  day  finally  drew  near  for  the  h"rvest. 

It  was  Sunday. 

The  mowers  and  threshers  were  at  Le 
Blanc's,  wh.ere  another  (Lay's  work  remained 
to  he  done. 

Tuesday  they  woi         rart  in  at  Rodray's. 

William  Rodray  was  walking-  slowly  around 
the  edge  of  the  wheatficld,  lookint,^  over  the 
crop. 

He  had  stooi)ed  to  examine  an  car  of  wheat, 
when  he  heard  a  swishing  .,ound  in  the  grass 
hehind  him. 

It  was  O'Malley. 

The  latter  had  been  waiting  this  opportunity 
for  several  days. 

He  had  seen  the  older  man  leave  the  house 
and  followed  him. 

lie  lost  no  time  in  preamble,  but  came 
straight  to  the  point: 

'T've  been  wanting  to  have  a  little  private 
talk  with  you,  S(|uire,"  he  began. 

"Very  well,  Hugh." 


Ili 


EMBERS 


121 


"About  the  work  here  on  the  farm.  I  thoup^ht 
we  niis:ht  be  a1)le  to  strike  a  bargain.  I'd  do 
the  work,  or  some  of  it,  and  see  to  the  doing  of 
the  rest." 

"And  how  much  do    you    expect    for    your 

services?" 

"Well,  Sciuire,  I  hadn't  got  that  far.  I  want- 
ed to  see  what  you  thought  of  it  first." 

"How  much  have  you  been  making,  Hugh?" 
"All  the  way  from  nine  to  twelve  dollars  a 
week." 

"When  did  }ou  take  to  drinking?" 
"Drinking?    Why,  I've  taken  a  little  sup  all 

IT       " 

my  lite. 

"You  did  not  say  so  when  you  asked  me  for 
my  daughter.  She's  in  rags,  Hugh,  and  so  arc 
your  little  ones.  Do  you  purpose  to  keep  this 
up?  If  so,  1  wouldn't  have  you  here  at  any 
price." 

"Why,  no.  Squire;  the  fact  is,  I've  been  a 
little  down  in  my  luck  of  late  and  driftetl  in 
wiih  the  boys,  which  was  wrong  in  me,  to  be 
sure,  but  it's  not  habitual.  Squire,  I  can  assure 
vou  that." 

"Well."  said  Rodray,  "I'll  think  the  matter 
over  and  see  what  I  can  do.    In  the  meantime, 


122 


EMBERS 


say  not  a  word  about  this  to  the  family;   you 
understand?" 

O'AIalley  erossed  the  road  and  let  down  the 
bars  for  the  cows. 

'I  hey  rushed  out.  mooing,  their  bulging- 
udders  swinging  from  side  to  side. 

O'Malley  put  up  the  bars  again  to  keep  in 
the  horses. 

Ilien  he  caught  up  w  itii  the  cow:s. 

William  Rodray  gazed  after  liis  son-in-law, 
as  the  latter  swung  his  long  whip  over  the 
backs  of  the  laggards. 

And  when  the  herd  ar^l  the  man  had  climbed 
the  hill  in  the  road  antl  (lisaj)peared  in  the  val- 
ley beyond,  he  turned  back  to  the  field  and 
scanned  the  mellow  wheat  that  waved  golden 
in  the  sunlight. 

"It's  as  good  as  settled,  Annie  dear,"  said 
0']\lalley  to  his  wife,  when  they  were  alone  in 
their  room  that  night.  "I  got  your  father's 
car.  Ah,  girl,  it's  myself  that  played  trumps 
to-day,  to  be  sure!  I've  got  it  fixed  now,  that 
I  know.  It's  a  secret  betwixt  me  and  the 
squire.  But  I  will  tell  you  this:  Skep  easy 
and  eat  hearty,  for  all's  well  and  the  danger's 
past!" 


EMBERS 


123 


Ann  stared  nl  her  lr»r(l,  a  smile  of  incredulity 
playing-  al)out  her  lips. 

He  noted  her  humor. 

He  looked  serious  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
turned  upon  her  and  said: 

"What  are  you  g-rinning  at?  Do  you  think 
I'm  drunk?" 

"Xo,"  slie  replied.  "1  know  you're  not.  But, 
did  you  really  get  around  the  governor?" 

"To  he  sure  I  did,  girl,  or  T  wouldn't  l)e  wast- 
ing my  hreath  telHng  you." 

The  harvesters  came  on  Tuesday. 

Eor  four  days  the  Rodray  homestead  was  the 
scene  of  much  a-  .ivity. 

O'Malley  spent  tlie  days  with  the  hands  and 
gave  g-lowing  accounts  to  William  Rodray  of 
his  work  a-field. 

He  remained  soher  and  took  his  drink  judi- 
ciouslv  from  a  stone  jug  which  he  had  hidden 
in  the  hay  loft. 

At  night  he  retired,  virtuously,  after  supper, 
together  with  Ann  and  the  children. 

He  understood  that  he  must  convince  his 
father-in-law  of  his  reformation. 

Henceforth  he  would  not  go  to  the  village 
tavern. 


124 


EMI5ERS 


TTc  conlfl  easily  (lri\c  over  lo  the  Point  and 
lia\-e  liis  Jul;-  filled. 

None  \\oul(l  ln'  the  wiser. 

Alice  and  Mrs.  Rodr.'iy  were  hnsy  with  the 
weddin.L;-  trnu->-fau.  for  tlie  :lay  wn^  drawincif 
near. 

Maurice  was  h.ead  over  hecN  m  love  with 
I'-lainc. 

And  i-daine  returned  his  l()\e  with  a  j^reat, 
un-pariuL;"  de\-otii)n. 

They  were  rarely  a]iart:  hut  little  was 
thou-ht  of  it  h\  the  neiL^hhors,  who  knew  of 
their  lit'edon^-  attachment. 

Mrs.  R()(lra\-  :L;rie\e(l  oxer  her  son's  prefer- 
ence I'or  the  I'rench  ^irl,  as  >he  used  to  call 
T'daine,  hni  said  nau^dit  of  her  chai;rin  to 
Maurice,  whom  she  was  i^rowinc^  dailv  more 
loath  to  displease. 

She  horc  this  part  of  her  hurden  in  silence, 
confinini;"  her  expressi<,ns  of  ^''^|)leasure  to  the 
D'Malleys,  who  seemed  to  have  taken  root  in 
the  homestead. 

O'M alley  was  takin,^-  a  livel}'  interest  in  the 
affairs  of  the  farm. 

Me  did  not  hesitate.  U])on  occasion,  to  voice 
his  mind  openly  at  the  table  or  in  the  councils 


'•i*v 


EMBERS 


125 


of  ihc  family  as  to  what  hv  thoiv^lU  should  or 
5-li(>nl(l  not  l)e  done  .abniit  the  place. 

The  eonciliatiniL;-  lone  and  manner  of  the 
earlier  da\s  of  his  stay  at  Lasalle  had  ;L,n\'en 
wav  to  a  more  ])ereni])l()r\',  almost  authorita- 
ii\e.  hearinj^. 

Mrs.  Rodr.ay  attempted  to  la_\-  the  matter  he- 
fore  her  hnshand. 

Ikil  he  turned  away  from  her,  without  a 
word,  and  left  the  room. 

i^nuilatini;'  the  example  set  hy  O'Malley, 
/\nn  now  went  ahout  the  house,  making  the 
heds,  carryinj^  slops  or  i)erf(jrnung  sundry 
ta<ks  in  the  dinini^'-room  and  kitchen. 

ihis,  in  a  measure,  conciliated  the  mother, 
who  looked  forward  to  the  coming  loss  of  Alice 
with  a  feeling  akin  to  trepidation. 

But  O'Malley  was  too  much  for  her  to  en- 
dure. 

1  ler  skin  crept  at  sight  of  this  cheeky,  ill- 
nicinnered  fellow.  She  was  never  the  first  to 
spea. 

And  she  answered  him  in  the  briefest  pos- 
sible words. 

Not  in  the  least  abashed,  O'Malley  went 
about  his  business  much  the  same  as  though 
she  had  never  been  in  Lasalle. 


12() 


EMIIKRS 


Tlio  WfddiiiLT  canio  at  last. 

It  was  a  quiet  atTair. 

Francois  rirc'.i::oirc  looked  ([uite  trat^ic  in  a 
Mack  "Prince  Albert"  suit. 

He  wore  a  white  rose  "b<iiitonniere"  and  his 
hlack,  wavy  hair  was  resplendent  with  strong- 
ly-scented O'l. 

He  walked  like  one  in  a  dream,  and  lu.-^  tace 
was  while. 

(  )n  his  wav  tu  the  aliar,  his  foot  caught  in 
the  carpet  and  he  stumbled. 

Some  one  in  a  jk'w  j^igj^led. 

Alice,  who  had  his  arm,  turned  very  red. 

All  Lasalle  was  at  its  doors  to  see  the  bridal 
couple  returnini,^  from  the  church. 

Alice  made  a  beautiful  bride. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  white  gown  with  a  lonj^ 
train  and  wore  a  wreath  of  oranc^e  blossoms. 

She  carried  a  large  bouquet  of  lilies-of-the- 
valley  which  Ann  had  gathered  on  the  edge  of 
the  garden. 

There  were  sever  carriages. 

Tiny,  white  silk  ribbons  lluttered  on  the 
whii)s. 

The  coachmen  all  seemed  alive  to  the  im- 
portance of  the  occasion. 


EM15ERS 


127 


TIk'\-  bore  tlieiiisclvcs  crcrt  on  the  boxes  and 
looked  straiL;lit  ahead. 

'Idle  sun  smiled  down  upon  Lasalle. 

The  house\vi\es,  in  tlieir  doorways,  said: 

"What  a  day  for  a  wechhrn;;'!" 

A  _i;Teat  feast  was  laid. 

And  when  they  had  eaten  and  drunk  their 
fill,  the  f.;uests  drove  haek  to  their  homes,  and 
the  In'ide  and  groom  set  out  upon  their  wedding 
journey. 


'The  time  was  now  approaching  for  Maurice 
to  leave  Lasalle. 

Elaine  counted  the  days  that  remained  with 
a  feeling  of  vague,  indefinable  dread. 

She  had  hoped  he  woukl  abandon  the  idea  of 
going  back  to  college;  the  more  so  now  that  the 
elder  Rodray  was  no  longer  able  to  work. 

.She  had  even  hoped  to  become  his  bride  in 
the  fall. 

b'or  he  had  told  her,  in  his  transports  of  pas- 
sion, of  the  great,  undying  love  which  he 
bore  her. 

She  dared  not  question  him. 

For  the  subject  was  painful  to  her. 


;;1  : 


4 


2i^ 


kmi;kks 


AikI  c\v]\  tn  iliiiik  of  the  comint^  sopar.'ilioii 
sent  the  tears  weUiiii^  (<»  her  e\e>i  and  Iier  heart 
heating'  u  ildl)'. 

She  hoped  a.L^ainst  ho])e  tliat  lie  would  not 
go;  that  ^otuethiiii;'  would  happen  to  keep  him 
with  her. 

And,  with  the  hnoyancy  of  youth,  she  wo'dd 
]»a^^.  of  a  sudden,  from  the  veri^e  of  tears  Uj 
li(|uid  ripples  of  laUL^hter,  seeinj^"  as  she  did,  in 
this  feehle  ray  of  hope,  the  possihihty  of  con- 
tinued liapi)iness. 

I  hit  Maurice,  who  had  ^ixen  no  thoui;h*  to 
eonse(|uences,  and  saw  no  ohstaclc  in  his  way, 
!iad  not  C(^nsi(k'red  I'.laine  or  the  comphcations 
that  nii,L;ht  arise  frt)m  their  "liaison. 

!  lis  lo\e  was  the  li)\e  of  the  hutterfly  for  the 
tlower. 

When  away  from  her,  his  thouj^hts,  his  as- 
l>irati(»ns  ran  to  his  future  with  increasing 
force  and  fe\'er. 

On  the  e\e  of  his  return  to  college,  he  was 
with  I'daine  far  into  the  night. 

\\  hen  Baptiste  and  Alamman  iiad  gone  to 
l)ed,  ihey  went  out  in  the  moonlight. 

They  walked,  arm  in  arm,  througi;  the  fields 
of  vellow  stubble. 


KMIU-:i<.S 


129 


I'unipkitis  stood  out  rc'<l  in  the  p.iK^  sheen, 
;iinl  upon  the  ;\iur  rniK  a  silvery  niDc  w.ns 
j^athtTJiii;  that  L;a\c  to  tin-  tu'liK  the  ^"ii'hlaiicc 
lit'  pa^tural  paintings  in  t'raine-  nf  crystal. 

I.ca\inL;'  the   lirliK   hrhind   ihi'Pi,   ihcy   wan- 
dered over  to  the  edL;i'  of  the  woniN  ami   lnj 
I'twed    the    winding;'   pathway    that    led    to   the 
ri\'er. 

d'hero  was  a  t'allen  tree,  an  oal;  that  had  heen 
>truck  down  1)\-  li^htnin;^.  upon  the  hank  of  the 
stream.  A  .i^reat  rift  had  heen  torn  in  tlie  trunk 
and  the  hark  wa^  blackened  and  ch.irred  in 
j)atchcs. 

'i'hey  seate<l  theni.seho  in  silent  accord  and 
gazed  npon  tiie  water. 

Each  was  ^tran.i^ely  preoccupied. 

Neither  ff>und  words  for  speech. 

The  ni^ht  air  was  cold. 

h'laine  huddled  uj)  to  Maurice,  and  he  placed 
hi^  arm  tenderly  round  her  waist. 

They  sat  there  a  loni:^  while,  not  spcakiiiGf. 

Sometimes  he  would  press  her  hand. 

Sometimes  he  would  draw  her  lips  to  his  and 
kiss  them. 

Rut  her  eyes  welled  up  eacli  titnc.  and  he 
became  strani^ely  atYeC  d.  as  thouq-h  some  one 
\'erv  dear  to  him  were      )out  to  die. 


I 


130 


EMP.ERS 


And  when  iliey  Nvalked  back  over  tlic  wind- 
mfr  path  that  skirted  the  woods  and  throuj:^h 
the  fields  of  yellow  stubble  to  the  house  of  the 
Le  Blancs,  and  when  thcv  j^azed  into  each 
other's  eyes  for  the  last  time,  it  was  in  silence 
still,  sax'e  a  sob  that  broke  from  the  lips  of 
Elaine. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN. 


The  students'  annual  retreat  was  held  late  in 
September. 

It  lasted  a  week. 

This  retreat  consisted  of  a  series  of  sermons 
and  religious  exercises,  and  had  for  end  the 
invocation  of  Providence  ujion  the  labors  of  the 
students  during  the  year  just  beginning. 

It  was  during  this  week  of  prayer  and  medi- 
tation that  Maurice  Rodray  thought,  at  last, 
that  his  vocation  was  discovered  to  him. 

A  great  light  burst  in  upon  him;  and  he 
trembled  at  thought  of  his  un worthiness. 

What  would  the  vow  of  chastity  mean,  com- 
ing from  him  now? 

Yet,  he  heard  the  call  distinctly. 

There  could  be  no  mistake. 

But.  .here  was  an  obstacle. 

It  stood  before  him.  silent,  immovable. 

Do  what  he  would,  he  might  not  argue  it 
aside. 

[1.31] 


132 


EiMBERS 


And,  what  was  worse,   it  was  of  his  own 

doing;. 

But,  oh,  the  throhhinc:  at  his  heart! 

And  tlic  voice  in  the  tahcrnacle,  calhng  to 


liini ! 


And  Christ.  Icach'ni]:  the  way  witli  liis  cross, 
l^rnclainiini;"  all  sins  forgiven. 

The  retreat  was  j)reachcd  Iw  a  young  priest 
of  the  order  of  ""tlie  most  Holy  Saviour." 

He  was  a  man  of  passionate  eloquence. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  the  week  that 
Maurice,  after  much  hesitation,  found  himself 
alone  with  Father  \'an  der  Ptlave,  in  the  room 
of  the  latter. 

The  priest  was  a  nervous,  wiry  little  man, 
with  piercing  black  eyes  and  ever  restless  arms. 

He  had  a  way  of  swinging  his  hands  over 
his  head,  as  he  spoke,  or  throwing  them  out 
before  him,  like  one  swimming. 

Me  was  seldom  still  for  a  moment. 

A  dynamo  of  imtiring  energy. 

He  would  change  from  laughter  to  deeper 
moods  with  all  the  swiftness  of  a  cat. 

He  was  essentially  happy  in  his  calling. 

And  the  great  joy  he  found  therein  lit  up  his 
thin,  ascetic  face  with  a  beatific  smile. 


EMBERS 


133 


A  sudden  allusion  to  the  sufferings  of  Christ 
for  mankind  would  brim  bis  eyes  with  tears. 

lie  was  an  enthusiast  of  the  Cross. 

Tlie  young  missionary  made  a  profound  im- 
pression on  Maurice. 

It  was  due  to  him  that  the  clouds  seemed 
about  to  dissipate  on  the  horizon  of  his  life. 

V^an  der  IMlave  made  it  clear  to  Maurice  that 
if  he  felt  called  to  the  jjriesthood,  it  was  his 
duty  to  respond  to  the  call  without  hesitation: 
"Unhappy  the  man.'"  he  said  many  times,  "who 
loses  his  vocation !" 

"How  would  you  like  to  become  one  of  us?" 
he  asked  ]^Iaurice:  "A  Salvatori^t;  a  preacher 
of  the  word;  a  saviour  of  souls? 

Maurice  had  not  thought  of  this  before. 

But  he  caught  the  priest's  fjuestion  eagerly 
and  asked  \'an  der  PHavc  about  the  life  of  the 
missionaries. 

The  priest  spoke  glowingly  of  his  order  and 
assured  Maurice  that  he  had  every  outward 
mark  of  the  calling. 

"You  could  leave  here  in  a  week  or  two;  that 
is,  as  soon  as  we  could  communicate  with  the 
l-'ather  Provincial.  Then,  when  your  adieux 
were  made,  you  would  take  ship  for  Belgium. 


134 


EMBERS 


You  would  make  your  novitiate,  and  complete 
your  studies  in  our  coment  at  Saint  Trond: 
For  we  have  no  'studentat'  in  Canada.  You 
would  see  the  \vorld;  round  out  your  educa- 
tion; and.  upon  receivinj^  Holy  Orders,  come 
back  to  us,  a  i)ricst,  a  full-fledged  soldier  of 
tk.  Cross." 

"J  would  i^ladly  i^o,"  rejoined  Maurice;  "but 
1  fear  that  I  am  too  unuorthv." 

"You  have  in  mind  your  .sin,  nion  ami.  Xow 
tell  me,  how  could  you  hope  t(^  better  atone  for 
the  j)ast  than  by  j^ivin,^-  your  life  to  God  and 
His  holy  service?  And,  besides,  you  should 
not  forget  that  the  mercy  of  God  is  grf  iter 
than  any  sin  of  man.  Can  He  not  do  for  vou 
what  He  did  for  Saint  Augustine,  who  had 
been  a  libertine,  Saint  Ignatius,  who  had  lived 
the  life  of  a  worldling,  the  Abbe  de  Rancy,  a 
free  and  easy  courtier,  and  countless  numbers 
of  others,  who  barkened  to  the  call  ?  Sleep  on 
it.  tonight,  mon  ami ;  and  come  to  me  tomorrow, 
after  :\Iass.  Pray  the  Blessed  Yirgin  for 
guidance,  and  your  good  guardian  angel.  I 
will  say  a  Mass  to  the  same  end.    Au  revoir !" 

Maurice  went  to  the  chapel  and  knelt  before 
the  "Mater  Dolorosa." 


EMBERS 


135 


There  was  no  lonn^er  any  doubt  in  his  mind. 

But,  Elaine — what  about  that? 

Then  the  words  of  \'an  der  Pflave  recurred 
to  him:  "The  mercy  of  God  is  i:^reater  than 
any  sin  of  man." 

There  nuist  be  a  decision  somewhere:  he 
would  be  a  priest ! 

This  settled,  he  wrote  a  lono-  letter  to  the 
elder  Rodrays,  in  which  he  spoke  at  lenj.^th  of 
his  great  happiness. 

Too,  he  wrote  to  Elaine;  but  the  tone  of  his 
letter  to  her  differed  from  that  of  the  other. 

It  was  a  duty  thrust  suddenly  upon  him,  he 
told  her — a  stern,  irrevocable  decree  which  he 
must  not  and  dared  not  resist. 

The  letters  written,  Maurice  locked  them  in 
his  desk  and  went  to  find  \'an  der  Pflave. 

The  latter  was  reading  his  breviary  on  the 
promenade. 

'T  will  go  to  Belgium,"  said  Maurice  to  the 
priest ;  "I  knovv'  it  is  my  calling." 

"Bravo!"  exclaimed  Van  der  Pflave,  closing 
his  book,  and  putting  his  arm  round  the  other's 
neck:  'T  thank  the  good  God  who  heard  my 
prayer.     Deo  gratias !" 


CHAPTER  TWFJA'M 


The  FatluT  I^r()\inci;il  of  the  Order  of  the 
-Ah)st  Holy  Saviour  was  tlieii  in  Oiiehee. 

He  rephed  |)roni])tly  to  \;ni  der  Ptlave's  let- 
ter, atttliorizin-j;-  him  to  make  arrant^-emeiits 
wiih  the  steamship  ecjiiipany  for  yotmg-  Rod- 
ray's  i)assag-e. 

Tlie  'T)ominion  of  Canada"  was  to  sail  in 
three  days. 

It  was  decided  he  wotdd  complete  his  i)repa- 
ralions  and  settle  his  affairs,  to  leave  on  that 
date. 

He  concluded  not  to  go  to  Pasalle.  His 
])eople  could  as  easily  come  to  see  him  off.  This 
would  lessen  the  pane's  of  partinsj;-. 

Mrs.  Rodray  came  at  once,  upon  receipt  of 
the  telegram  from  Alaurice. 

There  was  an  affecting  scene  between 
mother  and  son. 

Airs.    Rodray   gazed   long  and   tenderly   at 

[136] 


EMBERS 


137 


^Maurice,  who  se<?nied  to  lia\e  taken  on  an  air 
of  dee])  filial  affection  and  humility. 

"Ah,  my  son,"  she  assured  him,  the  tears 
coursin.i^  down  her  thin  face,  "this  repays  me 
for  the  past.  This  is  the  heavenly  reward  for 
all  mv  trials  and  sufferini^s.  (jod  is  just!  God 
is  just!" 

And  then:  "A'our  father  cannot  come.  The 
wicked  man  is  struck  down  a^i^ain  in  this  hour 
of  his  son's  triumph.  The  doctors  say  he  will 
recover;  hut  that  he  will  never  reg'ain  his 
health  com])letely.     Ah,  God  is  just!" 

Alice  and  Francois  came  on  the  last  day. 

The  O'Malleys  remained  at  home. 

Maurice  paid  a  farewell  visit  to  Alary,  at  the 
1  hotel  Dieu. 

The  latter  was  very  happy  in  her  vocation. 

She  was  proud  of  her  hrothei,  and  intro- 
duced him  to  the  ^Mother  Superioress. 

The  main  deck  was  crowded  when  the  Rod- 
ray  party  went  ahoard  ship. 

The  night  air  was  laden  with  the  perfume  of 
flowers. 

Blase  men  and  beautiful  women  stood  in 
groups,  chatting. 

Sometimes,  a  peal  of  laughter  rang  out. 


N 


138 


EMBERS 


P)iit  it  seemed  strans^ely  out  of  tune,  here. 

It  told  too  })laiiily  of  tears  forced  back  and 
held  in  check;  of  hearts  wtuiil;-  with  anj^uish ; 
of  souls  that  must  defy  their  feelini^s,  else  weej). 

The  scene  bewildered  Maurice. 

Francois  assisted  him  to  his  cabin  with  hi.s 
lujT^age. 

The  women  waited  on  deck. 

When  the  men  returned,  Maurice  went  up 
to  iiis  mother  and  kissed  her;  then  he  kissed 
Alice  and  g-a\e  hVancois  and  George  his  hand. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  he  had  gone 
below. 

Francois  led  the  women  down  the  gang-way, 
onto  the  wharf. 

They  were  weeping. 


When  Maurice  awoke,  the  daylight  was 
streaming  in  through  the  portdiole  and  the 
ship  throbbed  like  a  living  thing. 

A  man  came  into  the  cabin. 

He  was  tall  and  boney.  He  wore  a  Norfolk 
suit  of  gray  tweed  and  a  cap  of  the  same  ma- 
terial. 

"Good  morning,    sir,"    said    the    stranger. 


EMBERS 


139 


"I'm  your  cabin  mate  for  tlio  voyage,     ^'ol^re 
a  late  sleeper,  T  see." 

•'Have  we  started?"  askeil  .Maurice. 

"Started?"  rejoined  the  man,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "We've  left  Montreal  some  forty  miles 
hehind  us." 

Maurice  dressed  and  went  on  deck. 

A  few  men  and  women  v.ere  exercising. 

Others  leaned  over  tiie  railing  and  watched 
the  fleeting  shores. 

Some  were  seated  on  long,  frail-looking 
steamer  chairs,  reading  or  chatting. 

They  all  appeared  very  nnich  at  home. 

^Taurice  saw  a  stout,  l)earded  man,  in  a  uni- 
form of  blue  and  gold,  talking  to  a  tall,  dark 
woman,  in  a  heavy  cape  of  Scotch  plaid. 

He  judged  the  man  to  be  the  ship's  captain. 

The  woman  glanced  at  him  and  as  their 
eyes  met,  Maurice  felt  a  strange  dislike  for  her, 
thoueh  he  had  never  seen  her  before. 

He  dropped  his  eyes  and  crossed  the  deck 
to  the  guard-rail. 

The  trees  along  the  shore  of  the  river  were 
black  and  leafless. 

The  grass  was  dead  on  the  banks ;  the  fields 
stripped  of  their  yield. 


140 


EMP.ERS 


The  air  was  (lanij)  and  raw. 

Xo  one  spoke  to  Maurice. 

Lasalle  came  hack  to  him. 

lie  thought  ot"  l''.laine.  The  life  he  was  ahout 
to  take  U])  ai)iieare(l,  for  the  tirst  time,  heset 
with  |)(»s>ihle  disaster  for  him. 

A  feeliiii^^  ot  intense  loneliness  came  over 
him;  and  he  longed  for  the  emhrac^>  of  h^laine. 

1  he  hreakta^t  i;on^-  recalled  him. 

lie  was  assii.^iied  to  the  ca])tain's  tahle. 

r.y  hi>  side  sat  the  dark  woman  whom  he  had 
seen  conversing-  with  the  chief  oflicer. 

A  faint  perfume  wa.>  exhaled  from  the 
woman;  rui  indefitiahle.  ex(»tic  odor,  as  of  deli- 
cate flowers,  that  miL;-ht  have  heen  home  in 
upon  warm  winds  from  dista.nl  shores. 

The\-  passed  the  old  h^-ench  cities  of  Sorel 
and  Frois  Rivieres  and  the  sun  was  settins^" 
over  Ouehec  as  the  shij.  sailed  past  the  Citadel 
on  her  way  to  the  sea. 

In  the  (lulf  the  sea  was  rough  and  choj)py. 

The  third  day  otu  Maurice,  who  was  hadly 
shaken  up.  remained  in  his  cahin. 

It  was  late  in  llie  afternoon  when  the  door 
(>pened  niid  the  ship's  doctor  entered,  followed 
by  the  dark  woman  in  the  i)laid  cape. 


KMT^.KRS 


141 


She  caiiiL-  o\cr  to  liis  berth  and  placed  her 
hand  upon  his  forehead. 

"I'iMir  i)(ty!"  '~\\v  iiuirniurcd,  tenderly.  "\'<»u 
nui^t  try  tn  enuic  on  deck,  t< hik irrow.  Von 
lia\e  to  ri:.^ht  it  ot'f,  yon  know." 

Then  she  rani,--  for  the  steward  and  ordered 
a  pint  of  (']ic([not. 

.She  poured  the  sparklinc:  lifjnor  into  a  thick 
glass  tnnihler  and  L;a\e  it  to  Maurice: 

"T  am  a  L;ood  sailor."  -^aid  she,  turninsj^  to 
the  doctor.  "I  know  ])relt\-  well  what  they 
need." 

■"I  sjiall  send  you  something;  to  read,""  she 
continued,  addressinm'  .Maurice.  "You  like  ad- 
venture?" 

"\'es.  very  nuich."  he  re])lied:  "and — thank 
3011  a  thousand  times!" 

As  she  turned  to  g-o,  she  smiled  upon  the 
sick  man  and  Maurice  saw  that  she  was  beau- 
tiful. 

The  following  day  she  came  again. 

With  her  was  the  captain,  who  inquired,  in 
a  blustering  way,  after  the  health  of  Maurice. 

It  struck  the  latter  that  the  chief  officer  had 
come  to  see  him  merely  to  be  in  the  company  of 
tlie  woman.     And  he  was  surprised  to  feel  a 


142 


i:Mr.KKS 


p.'injT  (\f  icnloii^v  .'it  thouLrlit  of  this  old  man's 
conceit. 

'riic  ncM  (lay  .she  came  alone. 

r.ut  K'lKJi-av's  ca1»in  n'  ite  \\a>  lyiiiiJ^  in  lii-^ 
l)tilli. 

So.  slu'  liaiidcd  liim  I'danherl's  "MadamCi 
J'.o\ary""  ami  anntlKT  honK-  of  Clic(|Uot;  and 
went  awaN'. 

She  did  nm  come  ai^ain. 

i\nd  ilie\-  were  in  mid-ocean  hcfort  Maurice 
fell  \\(.'ll  I'tioni^h  t(»  ^()  on  d''ck. 

They  \Ncre  ti,i;htin,L;'  a  h.eaey  sen  and  tlic  ship 
lurched  an<l  rolled  in  a  mam'er  (!iat  made  .all 
look  i( I  their  sea  lei;"s. 

\  steward  assisted  .\hanrice  to  a  cliair  on  the 
starhoard  deck. 

A  >tity,  cold  w  ind  stnni;'  hi>  face. 

The  movement  of  the  shi|)  struck  the  pit  of 
liis  stomach. 

lie  came  to  his  tVet  (|uickly  in  an  effort  to 
j^et  to  the  ^-uard-rail. 

At  this  moment  a  ^reat  \\a\e  struck  the  ves- 
sel and  she  went  rolling-  over,  a  heavy  spray 
dashinc:  the  deck. 

M run-ice  felt  a  hand  q-rasp  his  arm,  and. 
turnint:;-.  ocheld  his  visitor  bv  his  side. 


KMI'.KRS 


14.^ 


"Go  back,""  lie  -aid;  "it's  rlaiiL^^froiis." 
••\..l  at  all,"  ^Iir  replied,  piillin.L,^  a  red  taiii 
o'  sliaiiter  Will  down  (>\i'r  her  wealth  of  raveii 
hair.     "I   love  the  ^ea  and  have  no  fear  of  its 
(lan,«,i:crs." 

She  held  hi-  arm  in  hers  as  thoitf^di  lu"  were 
a  child  of  teiicU'r  \ears  and  led  him  aronnd  to 
larboard,  where  the  wind  was  w.arded  ott  by  a 
tari)au1in.  wliich  iiad  been  stretched  over  the 
deck,  in  roof   md-wall  fa-hion. 

Thcv  seated  themselves  on  lon^  steruncr 
chairs  and  a  -teward  fetched  nij:::s  from  the 
woman's  cabin,  in  which  they  wrapped  them- 
selves. 

Their  chairs  tonchcd. 

Maurice  could  feel  tiie  heat  of  the  woman's 
arm  against  his. 

lie  tingled  with  a  strange  emotion;  but 
thought  instantly  of  his  calling  and  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to  the  rumbling  of  his  blood  which 
jiounded  madly  at  his  temples. 

Then  he  heard  her  voice,  riding  the  wind, 
like  the  tinkling  of  a  bell. 
He  turned  his  face  to  hers. 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  the  background 
was  like  the  transparent  white  of  Carrara. 


144 


EMBERS 


Her  eyes  were  black  and  of  tlie  softness  of 
velvet ;  the  lashes  lon.q-  and  thick,  like  an 
l{!g-yptian's. 

Her  teeth  were  white  and  flawless. 

Her  ears  pink,  like  coral. 

Her  ho.Mim  ro^c  and  fell  in  rhythmic  cadence. 

Maurice  had  never  seen  a  woman  like  her. 

She  was  lau,Qhin_^-  no.v,  and  looking  into  his 
eyes. 

"Ts  my  patient  better?"  she  was  saving. 

And,  with  a  sickening  throbbing  at  his  heart, 
he  replied: 

"^'es,  yes,  I  feel  much  improved." 

A  volume  >lid  from  her  la]j  and  fell  upon 
the  deck. 

Maurice  picked  it  up  and  handed  it  to  her. 

Their  hands  met  and  his  cheeks  flushed  per- 
ceptibly. 

For  a  moment  her  hand  lay  in  his. 

Then,  starting  up,  she  said: 

"^^ou  are  feverish :  let  me  send  for  the  doc- 
tor." 

"Xo.  no,"  he  protested.  "I  am  doing  splen- 
didly; I  am  much  better  than  I  was." 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  some  time. 
'Hien  she  asked : 


EMBERS 


145 


I 


"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  Belgium;  to  study." 

"Art?" 

"No— theology." 

"Oh'" 

She  gazed  down  upon  the  deck  for  what 
seemed  a  long  while  to  Maurice. 

Then  she  spoke  again: 

"Are  you  going  to  be  a  minister?" 

"No — a  priest.     I  am  a  Catholic." 

lie  glanced  at  her;  and  he  noted  that  her 
face  had  undergone  a  change. 

I-Jer  cheeks  had  paled  and  her  eyes  dimmed  in 
thougiit. 

At  this  moment  the  captain  catne  up  and 
drew  a  chair  beside  them. 

He  was  in  very  good  humor  and  predicted  a 
fall  in  the  wind  and  a  smooth  sea  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  voyage. 

That  night,  in  his  berth.  Maurice  w^as  a 
prey  to  whirling  thoughts. 

He  rolled  and  tossed  and  found  it  impossible 
to  sleep. 

And  among  the  shadows  that  crept  in  upon 
his  restless  soul  were  the  dark  woman  and  the 
captain. 


\\ 


146 


EMBERS 


And  he  himself  gave  the  matter  some 
thought,  and  stopped  for  a  moment  in  his 
dream  fever,  to  wonder  why  he  felt  so  deep  a 
hatred  for  this  old  fool  with  a  grandfather's 
heard. 

I  lis  heart  heat  lotidly  and  his  ears  sang. 

Many  lewd  and  awful  images  flashed  hefore 
his  waking  c\  os  as  though  clothed  in  garments 
of  flesh. 

And  always  it  was  he  and  the  dark  woman 
together. 

1  le  thought  no  longer  of  the  convent  in 
Saint  Trond;  of  \'an  der  Pflave,  of  Elaine. 

It  was  the  woman,  the  dark  woman,  now;  he 
did  not  even  know  her  name — oh,  God,  only 
to  possess  that  woman! 

( )n  the  morrovv-  she  did  not  appear  on  deck. 

Xor  the  next  day. 

The  third  day  a  steward  hrought  him  a  note 
fro:;;  her.     It  read: 

"Coine.    Cabin  Sij.   X'aldette  Bergere." 

He  followed  the  steward,  who  led  him  to  the 
door  of  the  cabin. 

lie  went  in  without  knocking. 

X'aldette  was  lying  in  her  berth. 

She  was  ])aled,  like  a  flower  that  has  suf- 
fered from  the  caresses  of  the  sun. 


m 


ExMBERS 


147 


But  Maurice  thought  she  was  very  lovely. 

And  he  trembled  before  her. 

"I  didn't  expect  to  have  to  send  for  you," 
she  said.  "1  went  to  sec  you  when  you  were 
ill." 

"I  did  come,"  he  rejoined.  ''And  I  was 
about  to  knock  on  the  door  when  I  heard  the 
voice  of  a  man — the  captain's  voice — and  I 
went  back." 

"Oh,  the  captain!  That  old  fossil;  why 
didn't  you  come  in?  You  are  going  to  become 
a  priest.  Vou  need  have  no  fear  of  women. 
\'ou  are  of  the  anointed.  Will  you  please 
])ress  the  button?  And  order  a  quart  of  Clic- 
([uot  and  glasses.  You  can  sit  on  the  edge  of 
my  berth.  Right  here,  near  me — that's  it. 
Now  tell  me  about  all  the  souls  you  are  going 
to  save — you  interest  me  so!  You  don't  know? 
Well,  let  us  talk  about  something  else.  Have 
you  ever  been  in  love?  No?  I  have  often 
wondered  if  priests  were  things  of  bone  and 
flesh,  like  ourselves,  or  mere  spirits  in  outward 
forms  of  men,  and  free  of  human  frailties  and 
base  passions.  Now,  here  is  the  story  of 
Manon  Lescault:  I  have  read  it  many  times. 
The  autlior,  who  was  a  priest — " 


148 


EMBERS 


Wi 


m 


"My  God!"  exclaimed  Maurice.  "Voii  are 
driving  me  mad.  I  lo\  e  you ;  I  love  you  with 
all  my  .soul !" 

He  flung  himself  ui)on  her  in  the  delirium 
of  his  passion. 

But  she  pushed  him  hack  gently,  like  a 
mother  refusing  her  bahe  the  breast. 

"The  steward!"  she  said  softly  in  1.:.-.  ear. 
"He's  at  the  door  with  the  wine!" 

When  the  champagne  was  drunk  \'aldette 
said : 

"Will  you  be  honest  if  I  ask  vou  a  ques- 
tion ?" 
"Yes." 

"You  didn't  like  me  at  first,  did  you?" 
i\o. 

"That's  a  good  boy.  Now  you  must  go  on 
deck  and  let  the  sea  breezes  cool  that  'grande 
passion'  of  yours.  Foi  I  would  never  consent 
to  being  the  cause  of  your  remorse  in  the  cold 
corridors  of  a  cloister." 

"At  least,"  said  he,  "lei  me  kiss  your  hand." 

"No,  no,"  she  laughed;  and  her  silvery,  mel- 
low voice  rang  out  above  the  plashing 'of  the 
waves. 

"Then,  why  this  note— whv  did  you  send  for 
me?" 


EMFSERS 


149 


(IJ 


''I  have  already  told  you,  my  dear.  Really, 
you  are  very  interest in,2^  to  nie.  Xow,  go, 
])lease;  that's  a  good  hoy — an  rcvoir!" 

Maurice  went  on  deck,  his  soul  racked  with 
rcgrtts. 

Why  had  he  ever  told  her  the  truth  about 
his  destination,  his  calling? 

What  had  come  over  him  to  admit  he  had 
not  fancied  her  at  first  sight? 

And  his  vocation — was  there  really  such  a 
thing? 

Or  was  it  not  more  like  a  chimerical  moth 
that  must  take  flame  and  perish  wretchedly  at 
slightest  contact  with  the  fir^^s  of  passion? 

Was  it  too  late? 

Could  he  turn  back? 

Or  must  he  go  forward  into  the  life  he  had 
chosen  ? 

lie  thought  again,  as  in  the  old  days  in  col- 
lege, of  the  mysticism  of  the  Word  and  the 
glory  of  the  latter-day  prophet. 

But,  now,  these  were  dimmed  and  undesira- 
ble ;  and  a  woman  of  daz;^ling  grace  and  splen- 
dor \vas  beckoning  him  to  follow  back  over  the 
wastes,  to  a  realm  of  more  sentient  joys,  where 
love  lingered. 


150 


EMBERS 


iV 


His  flesh  thrilled. 

Then  the  i)riesthood,  black-robed,  passed  be- 
fore him. 

He  th()u,o-ht  of  the  vow  of  chastity,  which 
must  endure  while  life  was. 

Again  he  saw  himself  in  the  pulpit,  convert- 
inrr  multitudes,  the  revered  of  the  faithful: 
Father  Rodra}  — the  name  would  be  on  the  lips 
of  thousands;  would  be  lisped  by  the  tongues 
of  infants. 

Then,  he  knew  she  would  not  listen  to  him, 
now.    The  woman  in  "89." 

And,  even  if  she  would,  the  disgrace — he 
could  never  rdurn  to  Lasalle;  nor  appeal  to  his 
father  for  aid. 

He  was  as  helpless  as  a  bird  unfledc-ed. 
He  went  below  to  his  cabin;  and  was  glad 
to  find  no  one  there. 

He  rang  for  the  steward  and  ordered  a  bot- 
tle of  Clicquot. 

He  had  never  drank  this  wine  before;  but 
now  it  had  a  peculiar  charm  for  him. 

He  inhaled  the  intoxicating  perfume  of  it, 
before  drinking,  as  though  it  might  be  the  hot 
breath  of  his  beloved. 

He  drank  deep. 


EMBERS 


151 


The  steward  smiled  when  he  called  for  the 
second  quart. 

And  when  Maurice  ordered  another  hottle 
of  the  champaij^ne,  the  man  merely  nodded  and 
withdrew — but  he  was  too  good  a  servant  to 
obey. 

The  next  day  passed;  and  the  next;  and  ho 
did  not  see  Valdette. 

And  on  the  followin<>-  morning  they  sighted 
tlie  coast  of  Ireland. 

The  grim,  gray  rocks  rose  out  of  the  sea, 
flanking  the  green  fields  and  defying  the 
waves. 

Mediaeval  castles  sentineled  the  topmost 
heights,  battered  by  time  and  tempest,  and 
deserted  by  men. 

White  clouds  of  gulls  rose  above  the  clitifs 
and  descended  into  their  nesting  places,  among 
ravines. 

Maurice  stood  at  the  guard-rail,  watching 
the  panorama  of  green  and  gray  as  it  unfolded 
l)efore  him. 

The  ship  trailed  along  very  close  to  the 
shore. 

At  times  they  could  see  the  Irish  farmers 
emerge  from  their  little  white  houses  and  go 
towards  the  barns. 


152 


EMBERS 


Maurice  even  saw  the  smoke  rise  from  a 
man's  pii)e.  as  he  stood  on  the  edi,^e  of  a  cliff 
and  waved  at  the  shij).  Maurice  waved  back 
at  the  fellow. 

lie  even  wished,  at  that  moment,  that  he 
had  been  horn  upon  the  isle,  so  that  he  niifrht 
feel  the  pani^^s  of  the  e\-icted.  and  know  the 
imjmlse  to  fight  for  the  cause— for  his  father 
had  told  him  much  of  the  suffer int^s  and  the 
oppression  of  Ireland. 

The  ship  took  on  her  pilot  at  Movillc. 

Slowly  the  coast  of  Ireland  grew  gray  and 
indistinct  and  finally,  late  in  the  day,  was  but 
a  shadowy  outline  against  the  sky. 

The  Isle  of  Man  went  by  and,  at  nightfall, 
the  ship  dropped  anchor  at  the  bar  of  Liver- 
pool. 

There  was  much  merriment  aboard. 
A  concert  was  given  for  the  relief  of  sailors' 
orphans. 

Maurice  remained  on  deck. 

The  waters  played  about  the  great  seafarer, 
and  a  round,  blood-red  moon  was  up. 

Here  on  the  threshold  of  the  old  world, 
Maurice  repented  his  haste  and  trembled  at  the 
enormity  of  the  undertaking  before  him. 


EMBERS 


153 


Too,  he  was  consumed  with  a  ^reat  desire, 
a  mad,  unreasoninjr  passion  for  this  woman 
who  had  so  stran.q-ely  entered  into  his  hfe. 

Gulls  swooped  and  skimmed  over  the  sea, 
emitting  their  shrill,  weird  cries. 

The  ship  rolled  drowsily,  like  a  cradle. 

lie  thou,L,dn  of  Elaine,  of  the  Rodrays  who 
were  keenly  proud  of  him.  the  eldest  son. 

And  now  it  came  in  upon  him  that  the  love 
of  h:iaine  was  a  great,  burning  love — a  flame 
of  ex(iuisite  purity  that  would  not,  in  time,  con- 
sume itself  and  flicker  out;  but  must  endure 
wliile  life  was,  and  would  not  chill  until  the 
heart  was  dead. 

And  in  this  moment  he  pitied  Elaine,  as  wc 
are  prone  to  pity  those  who  love  us  and  whose 
love  we  cannot  return. 

He  had  not  seen  Valdette  since  the  day  of 
his  dismissal. 

He  had  watched  and  waited  for  her  con- 
stantly; but  she  did  not  appear  on  deck. 

He  saw  her  in  the  forms  of  others  who  did 
not  in  the  least  resemble  her. 

He  conceived  a  genuine  hatred  for  a  pussy 
old  woman  who  took  X'aldette's  seat  at  table 
while  the  latter  was  ill  in  her  cabin. 


r  i 


5  1 


154 


EMBERS 


;.i 


He  scowled  villaitiously;  and  the  offense  was 
not  repeated. 

lie  drank  lart^e  (|nantiiies  of  CIie(|not,  be- 
cause she  was  fond  of  the  wine. 

And  now  that  the  hour  of  partinj;-  was  near, 
he  reahzetl  what  a  s^n-eat  void  must  conic  into 
iiis  life  w  hen  she  had  gone. 

It  was  well  on  in  the  forenoon  of  the  follow- 
ing day  when  the  "Dominion  of  Canada" 
slipped  into  her  dock. 

Maurice  was  standing  near  the  forecastle, 
watching  the  sailors,  when  X'aldette  emerged 
from  the  hatchway  and  came  toward  him. 

She  wore  a  trim  travelling  suit  of  dark  mate- 
rial. 

Her  face  was  pale  and  somewhat  thoughtful. 
"Ah,  Monsieur  Rodray,  I  suppose  you  will 
be  Hitting  away  on  the  first  train  to  your  be- 
loved retreat?" 

"I  had  counted  on  seeing  London,"  he  re- 
plied.    "But  now — " 

"But  now?    Go  on.  I  pray!" 
"^'ou  know  what  I  told  vou  the  dav  I  made 
such  a  fool  of  myself  in  your  cabin — well,  that's 
it.     I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  me  if  I  am 
not  to  have  you." 


EMr.ERS 


155 


"Poor  hoy.  it's  hut  a  tlcctinp:  fatuv,  I  assure 
you — a  tVctini!:  fancy.  I  shall  ^o  to  sec  you 
in  your  convent  some  day;  and  1  will  waiter 
that  you  will  not  receive  me.  so  taken  up  will 
_\ou  he  with  your  devotions.  Do  you  take  me 
up?" 

"\'es.  hy  the  (iod  aho\e  me!" 

"Good.  Ah,  they  are  hoist inj.^  the  <j:an,i;-wa\-. 
1  am  i;lad  it's  over." 

They  passed  oft'  the  ship  onto  the  slantinj^ 
.L,'-.n.<,n)Iank,  Maurice  holding  Xaldette's  arm  in 
his. 

A  crowd  was  j^athcred  on  the  dock. 

A  lart^-e,  fierccdookinj^  man  detached  himself 
from  the  mass  and.  comin-;-  forward  to  \'al- 
dette,  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her 
repeatedly  on  the  mouth. 

Then  he  turned  to  Maurice  and  said: 

"Thank  you,  sir — and  a  very  good  day  to 
you." 

And  now  they  were  gone. 

And  Maurice  felt  very  much  alone  and  ahan- 
doned  in  the  midst  of  this  howling  Bahel  of 
carters  and  cahhies  and  half-naked  urchins. 

He  wandered  about  the  thoroughfares  until 
noon. 


15r, 


I-MIU'RS 


Tlio  (■(.iitimMital  express  f<ir  Harwich  had 
Ji:>t  startt'(l  lo  iii<i\c.  as  he  >\viin^-  onto  the  tool- 
hoard  ami  vcraiiihk'd  into  Iiis  coiiipartnieiit. 

I  lir  iiii^hi  liad  settled  thick  and  hiack  when 
the  train  pulled  into  the  '<ld  h'.n^dish  seaport. 

'Idle  niL^ht  vteainer  I'or  Antwerp  was  thie  lo 
lea\f  within  the  li(»nr. 

Maurice  lo>i  no  linu-.  hut  went  ahoard. 

lie  walked  d^wn  a  lon^'.  douhle  line  ol"  little 
white  doors  wiih  hrass  k.ohs,  until  he  came  to 
his  cahin. 

lie  crawled  into  his  herth  and  directly  fell 
asleep. 

'hhey  were  in  the  waters  of  the  Schcld  when 
he  awoke;  and  it  was  daw 

In  the  distance.  lh(>  ("athedral  tf)wcr  rose 
j^rini  and  stolid  ajj^ainst  a  hack,L;round  of  spot- 
less sk_\ . 

A  priest  of  the  order  met  him  at  the  dock. 

"You  are  welcome,  my  dear  hrother."  he  said 
simply.  takin,i^  Maurice  hy  the  hand.  And  he 
led  him  to  a  waiting"  carriage. 

They  drove  to  the  Antwerp  convent  of  the 
Salvatorists. 

Maurice  was  warmly  welcomed  by  the 
priests. 


•■-MI'.RRS 


15; 


Meat  \\a>  laid:  and  a  lar^o  stone  jng  of  beer 
K'ok  lip  its  place-  upon  the  table. 

Manrice  fell  to  and  ate  heartilv. 

I  hv  (la\-  was  spent  viewinLi:  the  masterpieces 
oi  the  I'deniish  painters  and  in  the  Zoolo<^ical 
( lardens. 

In  the  evenino;  he  hoarded  the  train  for  Saini 
Troiid.  where  he  arri\ed  after  an  hour's  jour- 
ney. 

Another  jiriest  of  tlie  order  was  at  the  sta- 
tion to  meet  him.  I  le  was  a  youn<i^  man,  sliL^du 
oi  Irame  and  of  pleasant  manner. 

••]  i)resume  this  is  the  dear  Brother  Rodray?" 
he  inquired,  coming-  up  to  Maurice. 

■'>'es.  Ivilher,"  replied  the  latter. 

.And  they  turned  from  the  tracks  which  had 
hroui,dit  him  frr.m  over  the  world,  to  the  old 
convent  city,  now  indistinct  in  the  i^atherin.^- 
shades  of  ni^ht. 

I'hey  walked  through  windiny:  streets  for 
some  time,  and  finally  came  to  a  hij^di  brick  wall 
which  rose  hijrher  at  a  certain  point  and  took 
on  the  dignity  of  a  facade. 

There  was  a  door. 

And  over  the  door,  the  statue  cf  the  founder 
of  tlie  order. 


158 


EMBERS 


At  the  toot  of  the  statue  ran  the  inscription 
in  Latin:     "Peace  to  all  who  enter  here." 

The  I'-riest  spoke. 

He,  too.  was  younj?  and  knew  the  sacrifice. 

"My  dear  friend,  is  there  anything  you  would 
care  to  do  while  y(Hi  are  still  tr.^e?" 

"No,  Father." 

The  priest  turned  to  the  door. 

A  song  from  within  clanged  harshly. 

An  old  lay  brother  opened  the  door. 

For    an   instant,    Maurice   Rodray   glanced 
back  into  the  dark,  deserted  stt     ■■:. 

Then  he  went  forward  and  the  door  closed 
softlv  behind  him. 


li 


\ 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

When  Elaine  received  the  letter  from  Mau- 
rice, in  which  he  told  her  of  his  decision  to 
enter  the  Order  of  the  Salvatorists,  a  hollow 
moan  escaped  her. 

Her  head  whirled  and  sang;  and  her  heart 
throbhed  so  that  it  sickened  her. 

The  walls  of  her  room,  whither  she  had  re- 
tired to  read  his  letter,  swam  round  and  round; 
and  a  death-like  weakness  overcame  her. 

She  reeled  to  the  bed  and  fell  heavily  upon  it. 

Pain  flitted  from  her;  and  she  sank  into  a 
deep,  merciful  sleep. 

When  she  awoke,  Mamman  was  standing 
beside  her. 

Elaine  thought  of  the  letter. 

She  cast  a  swift  glance  over  the  floor;  but  it 
was  not  there. 

"The  letter?  Here  it  is,  my  dear,'  said 
Mamman. 

[159] 


160 


EMBERS 


;*  i 


ai 


Then,  after  a  silence,  she  turned  from  the 
w  indow,  through  which  she  could  see  the  ga- 
I)led  homestead  of  the  Rodrays,  and  said,  more 
to  herself  than  to  Elaine: 

"And  so,  he's  going  to  be  a  priest !" 

At  this,  Elaine  sank  back  upon  the  bed  and 
Iniricd  her  face  in  the  pillows. 

And  now,  no  longer  able  to  restrain  her 
grief,  she  sobbed  pitifully. 

Alamman  knelt  down  beside  her  and  stroked 
her  hand. 

"Bless  the  child,"  she  was  saying.  "It's  very 
hard.  But  you  mustn't  take  on  so.  For  there 
are  many  others  as  good  as  he.  The  voice  of 
Baptiste  recalled  them. 

"I  say,  Maman,  when  will  supper  be  ready?" 

"It's  ready  now,  Baptiste,  only  for  setting 
the  table.     I'm  coming." 

Elaine  did  not  come  down  to  supper. 

]\Iamman  told  Baptiste  of  the  letter  and  its 
contents,  over  their  soup. 

"Going  to  become  a  priest,  say  you,  Mam- 
man?    Does  he  say  he  is  going  to  be  a  priest?" 

"Yes,  a  priest — a  Salvatorist." 

"And  you  say  he's  going  to  the  old  country 
— I  mean,  does  he  say  that  in  his  letter?" 


EMBERS 


161 


"Yes,  Baptiste — to  Belgium,  to  enter  the 
novitiate." 

"And  when  does  he  sail,  Mamman?" 

"I  believe  he  says  on  the  twenty-seventh  of 
this  month." 

"And  what  day  of  the  week  will  that  be?" 

"Saturday." 

"Saturday,  the  twenty-seventh,"  he  repeated 
to  himself,  rising  from  the  table. 

"Why,  Baptiste,  I  ihought  you  were  hungry; 
you  haven't  eaten  anything!" 

He  came  over  to  Mamman  and  placed  his 
hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Mamman,  something's  wrong.  I  can  feel  it. 
I  know  it.  Else,  why  should  Ma  Petite'  take  it 
to  heart  as  you  say  she  does?  Then,  why  didn't 
he  come  back  to  Lasalle  to  make  his  adieux? 
I  tell  you  there's  something  wrong;  and  don't 
mistake  me!" 

A  thought  struck  him  suddenly. 

His  tone  changed  and  a  deadly  glint  flashed 
in  his  eye. 

"I  will  go  to  Montreal — " 

"Why,  Baptiste,"  brok;^  in  Mamman,  rising 
from  her  chair,  "what  would  you  be  doing  in 
Montreal?" 


162 


EMBERS 


1 ) 


"I  will  £^0  to  ■Montreal."  he  repeated  dog- 
o-edlv;  "1  will  meet  him  face  to  face,  before  he 
sails;  I  will  have  the  truth." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"lie  will  tell  me.  yes  or  no,  whether  harm  has 
come  to  'la  Petite' — that's  what  I  mean." 

Baptiste  made  good  his  word  and  went  to 
Montreal  to  sec  Maurice. 

P)Ut  it  was  late  in  the  forenoon  when  he 
reached  the  dock ;  and  the  ship  was  well  under 
way. 

lie  returned  to  Lasalle,  morose,  crestfallen 
and  strongly  convinced  that  his  suspicions 
were  true. 

He  spoke  no  more  about  the  matter. 

In  fact  he  turned  very  glum  and  had  little 
to  say  in  or  out  of  the  house. 

Onlv,  he  showed  an  increasing  tenderness 
for  Elaine. 

Xot  that  he  spoke  more  to  her. 

But  he  became  very  mindful  of  her  comfort 
and  saved  her  many  steps,  by  anticipation,  in 
her  work  about  the  house. 

Suddenly,  he  left  off  going  to  the  village  or 
to  church. 

He  took  to  roaming  the  woods  and  fields. 


EMBERS 


163 


Si)nictinics  lie  would  icnc  home  in  the  morn- 
ing' and  not  return  until  late  at  nigiit. 

I  !e  would  come  in  bespattered  with  nuul  and 
filth  and  covered  with  burr.s. 

Mamman.  who  had  iioted  the  chang-e  in  him. 
would  greet  him  kindly  and  lay  his  supper. 

i  le  would  snatch  a  bite  or  two  from  the  table 
wiihout  sitting  down. 

He  would  remove  his  big,  heavy  boots 
and  tiptoe  his  way  up  the  stairs,  candle  in  hand, 
to  Elaine's  room. 

He  would  place  his  ear  to  the  keyhole  and 
listen. 

Then  he  would  turn  the  knob  softly,  like  a 
thief,  and  steal  up  to  her  bed. 

Gently,  tenderly,  he  would  tuck  the  cover- 
ings under  the  feet  and  shoulders  of  the  sleep- 
ing girl  and  creep  away  to  his  room  as  softly 
as  he  had  come. 

When  Mamman  came  to  bed,  she  found  him 
sleeping  deeply,  like  a  tired  child. 

She  was  always  careful  not  to  wake  him. 

For  she  was  l)eginning  to  fear  Bai)tiste. 

He  was  so  unlike  himself,  of  late. 

In  the  mornings  he  would  rise  before  the 
others,  and  build  a  fire  in  Elaine's  room,  so  she 
might  not  have  to  dress  in  tLj  cold. 


\M 


EMBERS 


i 

111 


He  brought  her  the  reddest  apples  from  the 
bin  in  the  cellar,  and  laid  them  by  her  plate,  at 
table. 

And  if  perchance  he  prayed,  Elaine  came  first 
upon  his  lips. 

The  work  about  the  place  and  on  the  farm 
was  neglected  or,  in  some  instances,  not  done 
at  all. 

The  corn  had  not  been  shucked. 

The  cattle  were  left  to  run  much  as  they 
pleased. 

The  horses  were  ill-shod. 

A  fine  mare,  with  foal,  hobbled  about  on  three 
shoes. 

Alamman  had  taken  to  feeding  the  stock  and 
milking  the  cows. 

Baptiste  went  on  his  daily  pilgrimage,  none 
knew  where,  through  field  and  forest. 

Some  who  had  chanced  upon  him  unex- 
pectedly, in  the  course  of  his  wanderings,  had 
been  strangely  affected  by  his  mien. 

For  he  saw  no  one,  be  that  one  ever  so  near, 
looked  neither  to  right  nor  left  along  his  way, 
and  spoke  aloud  to  himself,  shaking  his  clenched 
fist  in  air. 


EMBERS 


165 


It  was  not  lon.s^;-  bcfure  stranjT^-e  rumors  were 
afloat  about  Baptiste. 

L^pon  his  api)roach,  children  ran,  screaming, 
to  their  mothers. 

PeopK  craned  their  necks  at  him,  as  he 
passed  their  houses. 

Men  j^rinned,  and,  looking  at  one  another, 
touched  their  heads  with  a  finger. 

Even  the  dogs  seemed  to  know  him;  and 
harked  savagely,  their  fur  rising  in  a  stiff  comb 
on  their  backs,  as  P.aptiste  went  by,  looking 
ne-'  .er  to  right  nor  left,  speaking  aloud  to  him- 
self, and  shaking  his  clenched  fist  in  ?ir. 

One  night,  he  did  not  return  home. 

Towards  midnight  Alamman  awoke  Elaine, 
who  had  taken  to  going  to  d,  of  late,  shortly 
after  the  evening  meal. 

The  t\\o  women  searched  the  fields  and,  go- 
ing over  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  called  for 
Baptiste  at  the  top  of  their  voices. 

A  thick,  soft  snow,  the  first  of  the  season, 
was  falling,  covering  their  tracks. 

The  echoes  came  back  to  them  in  clear  and 
tomb-like  tone. 

But  no  answer  from  Baptiste. 


166 


EMI5ERS 


^ 


Lart^e,  feathery  flakes  fell  upon  their  lan- 
terns and  melted  into  hot,  ])carl-like  tears. 

The  stillness,  more  than  the  cold,  chilled  the 
women. 

They  retraced  their  steps  reluctantly  towards 
the  house. 

Then  Maniman  said: 

"The  barns — let  us  try  the  barns." 

Elaine  clambered  ip  into  the  mow;  and 
Mamman  went  into  the  granary. 

Thev  searched  in  the  carriaire-house;  and 
turned  over  piles  of  sheepskins  and  driving 
robes. 

They  came  to  the  stables. 

The  cows  were  lying  flat. 

One,  near  the  door,  was  wide  awake,  chew- 
ing her  cud. 

The  gentle  brute  looked  around  peacefully  at 
the  women  and  mooed  softly. 

They  had  about  given  up  hope  and  were  go- 
ing towards  the  door,  wiien  Mamman  stum- 
bled against  an  object  on  tlie  floor  of  the  empty 
stall. 

She  raised  the  lantern  (piickly  with  an  in- 
stinct of  self-defense  mingled  with  fear. 

Daptiste  lay  ujKjn  his  belly,  the  full  length  of 
the  stall,  his  head  i.nder  the  manger. 


EMRERS 


167 


Ilo  was  pamiiiL,'-  heavily,  like  a  (1()<>^  that  has 
overrun. 

"P.ai)ti>te!"  said  Maniinan,  softly:  "My 
dear  Pjaptiste,  come  with  us!" 

He  did  not  reply;  hut  crawled  up  further 
heneath  the  ni.an.^er,  hiding-  his  face  from  them. 

"Poor  father,"  hesought  Klaine.  "It's  only 
Mamman  and  your  'Petite.'  Come,  please  come 
with  us!" 

She  stooped  down,  and  pulled  him  gently  hy 
the  coat. 

"Come!"  she  pleaded.  "Do  you  no  longer 
love  your  'Petite'?" 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation. 

Then  the  hig;  man  struggled  out  on  all  fours 
and  rose  to  his  feet. 

He  had  chang^ed  greatly  since  morning. 

His  face  was  seamed  and  pallid. 

His  eyes  had  a  wild,  frightened  stare. 

He  did  not  speak ;  and  did  not  seem  to  know 
where  he  stood. 

He  looked  ahout  him  with  wide-open  eyes, 
like  a  bahc  in  a  strange  house. 

"We  got  thirty-seven  eggs  to-day,"  said 
Elaine,  in  an  effort  to  reassure  him. 


168 


EMBERS 


He  j^azcd  upon  his  daii.i^litcr,  and  then  at 
the  wife,  and  hack  upon  h^daine  a.u^ain. 

He  smiled  a  wan,  tired  smile,  that  made 
him  seem  very  stranjj^e  ai.d  unearihly. 

And  the  women,  takin.q^  him  hy  the  hands,  led 
him,  unresisting",  towards  the  house. 

They  put  him  to  Ijed  and  watched  c.er  him 
while  he  slei)t. 

The  next  day  they  sent  for  the  villat=^e  doctor. 
The  latter  si)ent  an  hour  with  Uapf'ste. 

He  asked  the  patient  a  numb<r  (  f  questions 
about  the  farm,  the  crops  and  the  stock;  hut 
without  avail.     Lc  Blanc  would  not  spc  ik. 

He  stared  vacantly  at  the  floor,  at  the  wall, 
or  out  the  window  at  the  wide  expanse  of  snow- 
fields,  where  the  sun  played. 

He  was  visibly  upset  over  a  sparrow  that 
flew  onto  the  window-sill  and  pecked  an  atom 
off  the  pane. 

"My  dear  madamc,"  said  the  physician  to 
Mamman,  "I  fear  we  will  have  to  send  him 
awry.  He  has  suffered  some  great  mental 
strain  or  shock.  This  is  not  the  place  for  him. 
However,  it  will  do  no  harm  to  wait  t  lew  days 
and  see.  Have  you  no  one  to  do  the  work  about 
the  farm?     No?     That  is  unfortunate.     You 


EMBERS 


169 


should  j^^et  soincf)nc  at  onc(  ;  for  Monsieur  Lc 
lllcinc  cannot  he  relied  iipoti  for  that;  and  he 
sides,  Ml  his  jiresent  condition,  tlie  work  would 


1.    t 


oo  nmcli  l./i'  hini. 


I  I' 


tnd  run  down. 


lid  hiiii  (|uile  unstrun«r 


'Where  would  \  on  ha\c  u- 
tl 


>  -^eml  hull,  doc- 


tor."    the  wife  asked,  suspiciously 


'W  hv,  to  AloiiLreal;  that 


is,  risjlit  near  Alon 


treal— the  a.syluin — jusi  for  a  while,  you  knoW; 


until  he  jrets  hetter. 


Th 


le  wotiiei    hur^t  intM  (ears. 


The  doctor,  lirowiiiLr  nervoi 


s  ui  die  pre  ence 


f>t  L:rier,  \    ijniised  to  come  airai 


ijj'ain  on  iJie  nior- 


ruw,  and,  hiddint,^  them  take  coura.^^e,  hurried 
awa- 

h:i; 


mil 


foil 


owini^  instructions  from  Mani- 
iiian,  wrote  to  Isidore  Lalonde.  the  second  son 
of  her  mother's  hrother,  and  who  lived  on  his 
father's  farm,  near  Sa.:it  Lanihert. 

The  letter  requested  him  to  start  at  once  for 
Lasalle. 


("iiAi'Ti'R  i'oruri'.i'.x 


vnHk 


0'M;illc\  was  now  rnajor-doiiio  of  ilic  Rod- 
ra\-  lioiiK'-tcad. 

W  itli  Maurice  in  a  coincm,  (Icorju^c  at  col- 
lc';;v  and  tlic-  (.-Idcr  Ro(lra\'  completely  broken  in 
liealth.  he  came,  went  and  did  much  as  he 
pleased. 

I  le  did  little  work  himself. 

A  stranded  laborer,  who  was  jKissinjj^ 
throui^h  Lasalle.  on  his  way  to  the  .Slates,  was 
jjicked  u],  by  ()"Malley  and  put  to  work  doinj.^ 
the  winter  chores  about  the  place. 

O'Alalley  saw  to  it  th;it  the  man  was  i^iven 
plenty  to  do. 

"Idleness  is  the  father  of  mischief,"  he  said 
one  day,  with  the  air  of  a  confessor,  as  he  was 
about  to  lay  out  another  task  for  the  "hired 
man."'  "Sure,  1  didn't  start  out  any  too  well 
shod  my>elf,  in  life.  liut.  honesty  and  hard 
work  and  i)erseverance  bnni.^ht  me  to  where 
you  see  me  to-day.    T.v  the  wav,  there's  another 

[170] 


KMP.ERS 


171 


cord  ot  wood  hack  of  the  ^umiiRT  kitchen 
that  II  ha\c  to  he  sawed  ii|)  some  time  in  the 
near  t'litm-e.  Wonldn't  luirt  it'  von'd  start  in 
"II  it  to  day.  I\emem1)er  the  |)roverh — 'Xever 
put  olV  till  tomorrow  what  yon  can  do  to-dav.' 
Is  the  hay  pitched  down  t'or  the  cattle?  Well, 
von'd  hetter  do  that  first. 


it.     And  while  \nu'r 
of  hran  to  the  sick  hor 


so  yon  won  t   iorL,''el 

e  over  there,  t^ivc  this  pail 

se;  and  kt-ep  an  e\e  oni 


lor  that  sknnk;  he  stole  a  tine  hen  last  niL;ht 
the  l)e->t  laver  in  the  ilock.      ilnrr\   hack  n 


o\v 


Inn.  and  irel  [o  woi 


k. 


So    saviiiL;-.    he    sannlered    off    towards    ll 


ic 


store,  whisthnir 


die  Rainhl 


er  Irom 


CI, 


ire. 


W  illiam  Rodrav  now  remained  in  the  hon 


se 


tor  the  most  part,  leaving-  the  nianai^-ement  of 
the  store  and  farm  to  his  son-indaw,  who  felt 
his  imi)ortancc  increasinf^  dailv  in  the  honse- 


hold. 

O'AIalley  took  a  liij^h  hand  in  the  ad 
t ration  of  the  familv  affairs. 


mmis- 


Il( 


le  carried  the  store  cash  in  his  pocket  and 
l)nt  it  to  his  own  nse  without  scruple. 

I  le  made  res^ular  trips  to  the  Point  for  litiuor 
and  I)rou.<^ht  l)ack  presents  and  trinkets  I'or  Ann 
and  the  vounjj-  O'Mallevs. 


172 


EMBERS 


HI 


■J , 


lie  was  seldom  sober. 

Towards  Mrs.  Rodray  he  had  assumed,  of 
late,  an  air  of  cold  independence,  which,  when 
he  was  drunk,  bordered  on  tlie  humorous. 

He  came  and  went  without  so  much  as 
speaking  to  her. 

But  if  someone  else  happened  to  be  near,  he 
would  address  the  latter  in  a  tone  of  deep  solici- 
tude and  affection,  with  a  view  to  making  Mrs. 
Rodray  feel  the  want  of  his  filial  love,  no  less 
than  the  s^ing  of  his  contempt. 

On  a  number  of  occasions,  Ann  attempted  to 
bring  the  two  together  in  a  truce. 

But  the  usurpation  of  the  home  by  O'Malley, 
just  when  she  had  hoped  to  have  peace  and 
quiet  for  her  declining  days,  was  more  than 
Mrs.  Rodray  could  endure. 
She  rejected  all  overtures. 
For  a  considerable  time  A.nn  persisted  in  her 
negotiations  for  peace. 

She  approached  her  husband  on  the  subject ; 
but  O'AIalley  preferred  to  remain  on  the  de- 
fensive, which  posit:(  ;  he  now  occupied,  and 
refused  to  commit  himself. 

"Peace  in  the  house  is  fine,  Annie  dear,  to 
be  sure.     But  it's  all  up  to  your  mother,  mv 


EMBERS 


173 


.q-irl,  as  ynii  understand  well  enoiii^h.  To  the 
victors  belon.n-  the  spoils,  as  son]ebody  with  a 
lon.ir  jiead  has  said.  Now  that's  a  fine  line,  to 
be  sure.  It  wouldn't  surprise  me  if  Sha'ke- 
si)eare  had  said  it— or  Dan  O'Connell." 

Convinced,  finally,  that  further  efifort  at 
pcaceniakinj^  would  be  futile,  Ann  reluctantly 
went  over  to  her  husband's  camp. 

There  we-  ^  however,  no  open  hostilities. 

It  was  more  like  a  grim,  silent  struggle  for 
teniporal  power. 

Like  a  spectator,  viewing  maneuvers  from  a 
well-chosen  point  of  vantage,  the  elder  Rodray 
ga/^ed  upon  the  warring  forces,  without  com- 
ment or  interference,  as  thougn  the  people  con- 
cerned in  the  strife  were  nothing  to  him,  nor 
the  outcome  of  much  import? nee. 

O'Malley  had  transferred  his  jug  from  the 
lu'iyloft  to  a  secluded  corner  of  the  store.  It 
would  be  easier  of  access  here,  besides  lessen- 
ing the  danger  of  detection. 

And  then  there  was  the  moral  and  more  im- 
portant reason  that  its  presence  in  the  barn 
"light  at  any  time  be  discovered  by  Jim  and 
tempt  him. 

He  put  in  a  stock  of  candy,  of  which  he  was 


:|^' 


174 


E31BERS 


r 


ill:  } 


(i 


iii 


fond.  Tic  kept  a  su|)])ly  of  pcpperniinis  about 
him  which,  he  claimed,  aided  liis  digestion. 

I  ie  had  :i  nay  of  gettinjj^  one  of  the  pungent 
lo/enges  to  his  mouth,  without  being  noticed, 
u])oi.  the  ai)proach  of  a  customer,  or  in  the 
cr)urse  of  conversation. 

It  pleased  him  to  lean  over  tlie  counter,  a 
])encil  in  his  ear  and  twirling  his  spectacles  in 
his  fingers,  and  talk  over  with  a  crony  the  lat- 
est happening  in  the  village,  or  even  more 
)\eighty  matters,  such  as  the  sensation  of  the 
day  or  ])olitical  issues  nov/  before  the  House. 

When  asked  for  his  opinion,  he  would  draw 
his  red  kerchief  from  his  pockeL  and  wipe  the 
steam  and  finger  grease  from  his  glasses.  Then 
slowly  he  would  adjust  them  over  his  ears  and 
clear  his  throat,  like  a  judge  about  to  pro- 
nounce sentence. 

"Well — "  he  would  say  to  his  waiting  audi- 
ence, before  delivering  the  dictum;  this  with 
a  view  to  impressing  the  store  loafers  with  a 
proper  respect  for  the  opinion  about  to  be 
rendered. 

And  these  latter  grew  to  look  up  to  this  staid 
and  well-balanced  man  who  w';S  at  all  times 


EMBERS 


175 


pretty  iiuich  of  the  same  temper,  even  when 
in  his  cups. 

Ann  now  filled  the  role  of  honsckccpcr,  after 
a  fashion. 

She  rose  late  and  shambled  through  the  prep- 
arations for  hreakfast. 

Her  hair  hung  in  a  loose  braid  down  her 
l)ack. 

'J'he  vent  of  her  dress  lay  open,  revealing 
cheap,  coarse  undergarments  in  need  of  repair. 

Her  shoe-tongues  fell  back  upon  the  vamps 
and  the  laces  trailed  upon  the  door,  tripping 
her  as  she  walked. 

She  was  still  a  great  reader;  and  O'.Malley 
seldom  overlooked  the  hook  store  on  his  trips 
to  the  Point. 

The  rooms  lay  under  a  thick  pall  of  dust. 

The  bannisters  and  door-knobs,  the  furniture 
and  bric-a-brac  throughout  the  pla-  i  were 
sticky  from  the  hands  of  the  O'Malley  children, 
who  were  allowed  "carte  blanche"  and  went 
through  the  rooms  nmnching  candies  and 
sweets. 

Mrs.  Rodray  was  driven  to  desperation. 

She  wished  to  flee;  t6  forget  all  about  La- 
salle;  to  end  her  days  away  from  this  sordid 
hole  that  was  no  better  than  a  hell. 


S.'fe, 


176 


ExMBERS 


Slic  wTOic  to  Alice,  asking  if  slie  mii;ht  go 
to  the  Gregoirc  home  to  live. 

Alice  handed  the  letter  to  F  mcois,  but  he 
would  not  hear  of  it. 

lie  wanted  his  wife  all  to  himself,  he  said. 

She  laid  the  matter  jiefore  Father  Nadeau. 

But  the  priest  advised  her  to  1  -^ar  her  cross 
bravely  and  pray  heaven  for  .oriitude  in  his 
her  hour  of  trial. 

"Crosses,  tribulations,"  he  sn'd,  "are  the 
greatest  proofs  God  can  give  us  of  His  infinite 
love.  The  sorest  trials  come  to  those  He  loves 
most.  Take  courage,  my  dear  Madame  Rod- 
ray.  There  are  manv  \\ho  have  no  home  to 
leave!" 

She  went  home  and  '^ccluded  herself  in  her 
room. 

She  appeared  rarel\  at  table. 

Sometimes  she  w^nt  away  in  the  moi  ling 
and  spent  the  day  with  friends  in  the  village, 
whom  she  had  enlisted  in  her  sympathy. 

Sometimes  she  drove  over  to  the  Point, 
merely  to  be  away  from  her  surroundings, 
which  were  daily  becoming  more  unbearable. 

One  day  she  sat  down  to  dinner  with  the 
others. 


EMBERS 


177 


"William,"  she  said,  "I  want  about  a  hun- 
dred dollars;  I  am  .c:oin,!:^  to  spend  tlie  winter 
months  in  Montreal,  at  the  Kirbys',  aiid  I  shall 
'  'ed  some  money. 

William  Rodray  did  not  raise  his  eyes  from 
his  plate,  nor  make  reply  at  once. 

O'ATalley,  seeing  a  possible  chance  to  cross 
iiis  mother-in-law,  leered  a])ologetically  o-er 
iiis  soup  and  said: 

"A  hundred  dollars!  Goodness  me,  what  a 
lot  of  money!  I  know  there  isn't  half  that 
much  in  the  store,  squire." 

Mrs.  Rodray  turned  a  livid  white. 

Her  spoon  fell  back  into  the  soup-dish  and 
she  came  quickly  to  her  feet. 

I  fer  shaking  ha^ds  clasped  the  edge  of  the 
table  in  an  effort  to  stay  her  swaying  ])ody. 

Her  eyes  snapped  like  sparks  in  tiie  dark. 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  rent  with  ter- 
rible passion. 

Then  her  hand  stole  to  her  bosom  and  went 
upwards  over  her  shoulder. 

For  an  instant  something  glinted  in  the  sun- 
light, then  flashed  through  space  with  terrifc 
swiftness,  as  though  shot. 

The  knife  grazed  O'Malley's  cheek,  skinnin^r 


I  i 


178 


EMBERS 


'll 


n 


the  cuticle  and  threading  his  face  with  a  thin 
trickle  of  hlood,  like  a  crimson  yarn. 

iMrs.  Rodray  fell  back  upon  her  chair,  in  a 
faint. 

O'AIalley  dashed  from  Mie  room. 

'^f'he  children  ran,  screaming^,  over  the  house. 

Ann  bathed  her  mother's  face  in  a  hastily 
prepared  solution  of  vinegar  and  water. 

William  Rodruy  rose  up  from  his  seat  and 
came  over  to  his  wife,  who  was  now  conscious. 

"Nothing  would  do  you  but  that  our  s(^ns 
go  to  college,"  he  began.  'They  must  study 
for  the  Church.  Well,  others  must  take  their 
place,  forsooth.    The  soil  will  not  till  itself." 

He  drew  the  hundred  dollars  from  his  wallet 
and  slai)ped  it  down  upon  the  table ;  then  added  : 

"Vou  have  broken  up  the  home;  you  have 
brought  it  all  upon  yourself." 

And  now  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode 
out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  FIFTRKN 


Tliey  took  Baptistc  away. 

Two  sirouii;  men  came  for  him,  one  day,  in 
the  morning". 

He  was  in  hed. 

"Monsieur  Le  Blanc,"  said  one,  "we've  come 
lo  take  you  with  us  for  a  ride  through  the  coun- 
try. It  will  do  you  good;  what  think  you  of 
it?"  ^ 

Baptiste  stared  at  them  for  a  moment,  va- 
cantly; then  rolled  over  in  bed,  his  face  to  the 
wall. 

Klaine  and  Alamman,  who  had  come  in  with 
the  men,  left  the  room,  uttering  convulsive 
sobs. 

Suddenly  Elaine,  unable  to  remain  away,  re- 
turned. 

Her  grief  was  pitiful. 

She  went  up  to  the  men  and  pleaded  with 
them  n-  i  to  take  Baptiste  away. 

[179] 


4    -^ 


, 


ISO 


EMIiERS 


'i'licn  ].c  Ill.nic,  foarino-  I-'.lainc  to  he  in  dan- 
s^vr.  uiriivd  (|uickly  <)\cr  nud  IcajK'd  out  of  licd. 
i  lie  ii  c-ii  now  coaxed  Haptiste;  and  lie  finally 
consented  to  dress  liiniself. 

He  refused  breakfast. 

And  between  tlie  two  men,  be  walked  out  of 
tbe  liou.^e  and  down  the  steps  to  the  slei^!;b  with- 
out utterinj^-  a  word. 

i  he  women  came  out  on  the  porch.  They 
were  s.jbbin-  loudly;  and  their  forms  shook  in 
spasms. 

When  they  had  s^otten  into  the  sleigh,  one  of 
the  men  looked  back  and  said : 

"Goodbye,  Aladame  Le  Hlanc;  \\c'll  take 
g(jod  care  of  him." 

'1  here  was  a  (|uick  command  to  the  horse. 

';'he  sleigh  lurched  forward. 

'idle  bells  shrilled  niadly,  rending  the  air,  as 
with  the  shrieks  of  pain. 

"Baptistc!"  cried  Mamman,  throwing  her 
hands  abo\e  her  head. 

lUit  in  the  wild  jangle  her  voice  went  waste. 


Isidore  Lalonde  had  sot  out  at  once  for  La- 
sallc  upon  receipt  of  Elaine's  letter. 


ICMP.ERS 


181 


i 


No  was  a  slrappinq^  fellow  of  tliiii 


V  years 


or  Ihcrcahouts;  of  powcrfr.I  |)hysique  and 


WW 


ciar 


11 


is   niollicr   was   a   halfhrccd    Indian    f 


C  "oknowau'LTa 


r(jni 


.•>,-i' 


r 


•lor  to  his  arrival  at  l.asallo,  lie  had 


never 


seen  ins  eonsm.  l^laine  l.c  Bl; 


mc. 


Ah 


unman  made  liir:  an  offer  which  he 


ac- 


ce!)ti- 


The    ], 


irq-ain    struck,    Isirlore    ciian"-ed    1 


IS 


clotlies  and  went  strai-luway  to  work 
^  'I'iicre  was  much  to  he  done:  the  corn  to  he 
MUicked  and  shelled;  peas  to  he  llireshed  hy 
Hail;  hoc^-s  to  he  hutchered. 

.      Tlie  barns  and  stables  had  been  -oin-  to 
rack.  ^      "^ 

Isidore  would  have  iiis  hands  full  for  tlie 
winter. 

1  Ic  was  no  dawdler,  iliis  dark,  brawny  cousin 
of  Fdanie's.  rising  at  cock-crow  and  toiling  until 
long  after  dark. 

A  bo\\l  of  pea  soui).  a  thick  slice  of  salt 
pork,  and  potatoes  satisfied  him. 

He  asked  for  no  more. 

And  as  for  women,  he  had  never  given  them 
a  serious  thou"-ht. 


1S2 


EMP.ERS 


fl 


?(s. 


Of  course,  he  had  had  his  httic  affairs  in 
town,  hke  the  usnal  run  of  countrv  lads. 

lUit  these  had  heen  merely  (hversions. 

There  had  heen  no  hearts  hroken. 

Two  years  in  the  httle  i)arish  school,  at  Saint 
Lanihert,  were  resjxuisihle  for  his  meager  store 
of  learning. 

His  I'reneh  was  nn"\ed  witli  a  thick,  impcnc- 
trahle  "t)atois." 

ilc  A-as  poHte.  with  that  crude  alTal)ih"tv 
common  amon.i,'-  the  peasantry  of  Ouehec.  And 
hy  no  means  a  chihard. 

Witty  and  daring-,  he  risked  many  a  cuff 
horn  the  wf)men  folk,  hy  sandwichin,!,^  into  his 
conversation  shady  and  douhle-cd.^^ed  "hons 
mots." 

More  than  that,  he  was  somethinj^  of  a 
dandy;  and  was  ([uite  vain  of  his  lonj^,  droop- 
ing mustache,  which,  when  he  frowned  hefore 
his  mirror,  gnvc  hnii,  he  thought,  the  air  of 
a  general  on  the  eve  of  hattle. 

He  stood  at  length,  many  times,  hefore  the 
little  glass,  twirling  his  mustaches  and  smiling, 
til  is  way  and  that. 

He  bought  oils  and  cosmetics  with  which  he 
forced  the  coarse,  rebellious  hairs  into  submis- 
sion. 


kmiU':rs 


183 


«•  was  fuinly  (Yuivimofl  that  few  uotncn,  if 


.'iii\,  C(»uM  i\'sist  h 

r.nt, 
fellow 


"11.  ir  piii  t,,  (est. 


c 


"'  <•"".-.(',  he  uas  a  decent.  honorahL 
"Hi   w.nild   ii,,t    ojve  thou-ht   to  such 

H-  injustice  it  would 


deeds,  kn.  a  iutr.  ,,^  he  did,  tl 
carry  to  other  nicii. 


And, 


refusiui;-  to  share  the  spoils  of  possihk 


victories,  he  had  turned  his  h.-ck  lik 
niatriniony. 

At  si<;ht  of  j:l- 

Ih-  felt  a  stran,i,a'  thrill 
"cr  pale,  sweet   face  1; 


owise  upon 


line.  up(Mi  their  first  mcetin< 


'''<-'  '>arns,   that    ni,-ht,   as   1 


n.i^ered  heforc  h 


work. 


ini  in 
lie   went   ahout   liis 


lie  wondered  h 


( » 


ilicy  were  cousins — for  si 


w  it  e\er  came  ahout  that 


iH'inir  ( 


le  aj)peared  to  h.iin 


)f  another  i)eople— a  hetter  and  cl 


as 


nice;  this,  thou,<,di  he  u, 
name  and  of  himself. 


eancr 


IS    V 


cry  proud  of  his 


P.ut,    somehow,    she    differed    from    others 


stranj^ely 

Then    he    tired    of    think 


au-hed  at  himself  for  a  fool 
And  to  convince  himself  that  his  1 


inj?    upon    it    and 


free.  1 


ic  san^  in  lusty  voice  : 

"Au  clair  de  la  lunc. 


icart  was 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

ANSI  end    ISO  TEST   CHART  No    2, 


.0 


I.I 


150      '""==--  11111  = 

'^  IB  mil  2.2 


1^ 

|40 


2.0 


.8 


1.25 


1.4 


1.6 


^     APPLIED  irvHGE     Inc 


6^3    East   Mam    Street 
•ocheslet,    New    rork         14609       uSA 
'16)    ■482  -  0300  -  Phone 
''6)    ?P8      ^989  -  r^. 


184 


EAIliERS 


h  ■ 


r.cliocs  cnnic  in  tuneful  cadence  and  mingled 
riotously  with  the  sono;. 

P)Ut,  in  his  room,  hefore  going  down  to  sup- 
j)er.  he  stood  somewlial  longer  than  usual  be- 
fore the  mi'.ror,  twirling  his  mustaches  and 
rulibing  d(nvn  his  hair. 

Fdaine  had  eaten. 

She  had  gone  to  her  room. 

Isidore  ate  supper  with  I\Iamman. 

He  enquired  if  F^laine  were  ill. 

"Xo,"  said  ■\Iamman,  coloring.  "But,  she  is 
not  in  very  good  health.'" 

She  changed  the  subject  to  the  stock. 

They  decided  to  butcher  the  following  week. 

In  the  meantime,  Isidore  would  start  in  on 
the  corn. 

"\'ou  have  plenty  of  peas?"  enc[uired  Isidore, 
looking  up  from  his  plate,  at  Maniman. 

"Ves,  more  than  we  have  use  for,"  the  latter 
replied. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  he  said,  going  back  to 
his  plate,  "for  I'm  fond  of  the  soup." 

The  winter  was  long  and  rigorous  in  Lasalle, 
that  year. 

It  rode  in  a-bellow  on  the  first  piercing  winds 
of  November,  scattering  the  dry,  powdery  snow 


EMBERS 


185 


I 

I 


over  the  frozen  earth,  until  rido-cs  of  crystal 
mountains  chained  along-  the  highway  as 
though  they  niig-ht  have  been  the  handiwork 
of  ages. 

But  the  croi)s  had  been  abundant;  and  there 
was  full  and  plenty  for  the  needs  of  the  "habi- 
tants." 

So  they  drew  on  their  thick  frieze  coats  and 
worked  among  the  stock  for  a  few  hours  each 
da}',  until  the  sun  sank  below  the  verge. 

Then  they  went  into  the  house  and,  drawing 
their  chairs  close  to  the  flaming  logs,  smoked 
their  pipes  until  time  for  supper;  then  smoked 
again,  and  went  to  bed. 

Not  so  with  Isidore. 

He  must  rise  early  and  work  late;  so  nuich 
had  been  left  undone  by  Baptiste. 

But  he  toiled  with  a  willing  heart  and  sang 
over  his  task. 

For  he  was  pricked  with  a  sharp  ambition,  of 
late,  to  marry  Elaine. 

He  throbbed  with  joy  at  sight  of  his  day's 
work. 

He  was  ])roud  of  his  great  strength,  of  his 
ability  to  withstand  fatigue. 

He  loved  the  dumb  brutes  abotit  the  place. 


KS6 


EMBERS 


'I  > ' 


And  these  know  him  and  came  at  his  call. 

On  Sundays,  he  drove  to  San.q-low. 

None  hut  the  fastest  horse  would  do;  the 
new  slei.^h,  the  rich  fur  rohes.  with  red  trini- 
niin^^s.  the  shininir  snow-hells  which  he  had 
prevailed  upon  Maninian  to  h,uy. 

He  had  thou.^ht  lon.c:  "P""  it  before  speak- 
nv^;  hut  at  last  he  made  up  his  mind,  and  ap- 
l)roached  Elaine. 

"La  Petite."  he  hes'an.  and  there  was  a  .q-leam 
of  tenderness  in  his  hold,  hlack  eyes,  as  he 
drew  near  to  her,  "I've  heen  thinking?  a  deal 
about  you  since  luy  coniin.^-  here  to  Lasalle.  I 
like  your  looks;  I  fancy  your  ways;  and  I  don't 
care  a  straw  for  any  little  thin^!^:  ^bat  may  have 
,t;-one  wrono'  in  your  life — now  that's  frank, 
isn't  it?  At  any  rate  it's  my  way  of  tbinkiufj. 
What  say  you  to  a  drive — over  to  the  Point? 
The  roads  are  good  and  everything's  in  ship- 
shape?" 

^A\'ho  told  you?"  gasped  Elaine,  starting  up. 
"Why,  I  needed  none  to  tell  me:  any  one 
could  see.  When  I  received  your  letter,  asking 
me  to  come  to  Lasalle,  I  wondered  then  what 
you  were  like;  and  I  remember  thinkiiig  how 
funny  it  would  he  if  you  and  T  should  some  day 
come  together.'' 


EMBERS 


187 


i 


Elaine  was  silent  for  sonic  time. 

Isidore  came  very  close  to  her,  looking  into 
her  eyes. 

"I  am  glad  yon  spoke  frankly,"  she  said,  at 
last.  "For  it  enables  me  to  give  you  an  equallv 
frank  reply :  I  cannot  and  will  not  go  out  with 
you,  now,  nor  at  any  other  time.  ^  Moreover, 
I  beg  of  you,  waste  no  thought  on  me ;  for  there 
^^^'^^^  "ever  possibly  be  anything  bet^^'een  us." 

"W^ell,"  rejoined  Isidore  dejectedlv,  "as  you 
say.  But,  you'll  have  i)lenty  of  time  in  wilicli 
to  change  your  mind.  If  you  do,  what  then- 
do  I  come  first?" 

^  "I  will  not  change  my  mind— nor  my  heart. 
Now.  please,  Isidore,  won't  you  go?" 

"Why,  certainly,"  he  said,  striding  off  to  the 
door,  like  a  grand  seigneur. 

Elaine  did  not  think  ill  of  :\raurice  for  his 
desertion  of  her. 

She  knew  he  was  not  aware  of  her  predica- 
ment. 

Too,  being  well  schooled  in  her  religion  she 
understood  the  gravity  of  the  problem  which 
had  confronted  him  in  the  choosing  of  his  vo- 
cation. 

She  even  went  so  far  as  to  blame  herself  for 


i  '' 


iss 


EMBERS 


his  falling-  oil.  For.  tb.ouoht  she,  had  she  not, 
alhcit  un\vittini;ly,  Icmpted  him? 

And  _\\t.  at  limes,  a  feeling  of  great  hitter- 
ne>s  would  eoiue  surging  to  her  heart,  which 
she  nui-t.  wiili  great  effort,  put  hack. 

Ftr  lie  had  >aid  much  of  his  love  for  her. 

.\nd  when  tlie  days  came  hack  to  her  of  his 
hot  wooing,  she  trembled,  even  now,  with  pain. 

She  had  hoped  vaguely  that  he  might  write 
h.er  from  his  grim  retreat. 

lUn  no  letter  had  come  from  him — no  word 
of  solace  in  these  hours  oi  trial  and  anguish. 

The  long  winter  days  dragged  in  wretched 
monotony. 

Mamman  .'ind  Idaine  were  kept  busy  sewing. 

There  were  many  little  garments  to  make. 

One  bv  one.  the  days  were  told  off,  like  the 
beads  i^\  an  internn'nable  rosary. 

C)ne  dav  in  April,  when  the  trees  had  drunk 
their  sap  and  blossomed  out  in  leaf  and  bud, 
-Mamman  dexi)atched  Isidore  to  Long-Point,  to 
see  Baptiste. 

1  le  was  also  given  a  conge,  to  visit  his  people 
ai  Saint  Lambert. 

Three  days  later,  Isidore,  who  had  just  re- 
tin-ned,  was  beiiding  over  a  bowl  of  soup,  in  the 


EMBERS 


189 


kitchrn.  when  the  door  into  the  liallway  opened 


and  he  lieard  a  shrill  litll 
iineei-tain  tone. 


e  voice,  scoldincr  in  no 


11 


0  .glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  sonnd. 


e  ones. 


He  was  very  fond  of  littl 

I  ('(\  he  was  deeply  in  love  with  Eh 

'Xom  de  Dieu!"  he  exclaimed  aloud.cl; 


unc. 


pin^i,'-  his  hand  on  the  tahle;  "iW 
to  he  its  daddy!"' 

In  the  chaniher  above,  wliere  a  1 
come  to  life  throuo-h  the  agonv  of  I 
nient,   Elaine  looked  into  her  daucl 
and  thrilled. 

For  they  were  the  eyes  of  M 


;"ive  an 


:ip- 
eye 


ttle  soul  had 
ove's  atone- 


^) 


liter' 


eyes 


:iurice. 


chapti:r  sixtrkn 


The  convent  of  the  Salvntorists  was  situate 
in  the  Ixmri^^eois  (jiiartcr  of  Saint  Trend. 

The  structure,  which  was  of  red  brick,  was 
of  hirge  proi)ortions  and  was  huilt  in  the  shape 
of  an  H — one  winp^  beins^  for  the  resident 
])riests  and  missionaries ;  the  other  for  the  stu- 
dents and  novices. 

The  convent  stood  on  the  street  side  of  an 
immense  garden. 

Wide  cinder  i)aths  ran  in  all  directions  over 
the  garden  and  on  the  edges  of  the  paths  were 
short,  stubby  hedges  of  boxwood  which  never 
changed  from  its  dark  green  shade. 

The  paths  were  shaded  by  fruit  trees  of  many 
kinds. 

Pears,  peaches,  apples,  plums  and  cherries 
grew  in  abundance. 

The  high  brick  wall  that  ran  round  the  gar- 
den, shutting  out  the  world,  was  mantled  with 

[190] 


IV. 


EMBERS 


191 


y 


a  thick  covcriii-  of  orrapcvines  which  horo  heav- 
ily and  furnished  wine  for  the  Mass. 

Here  and  there,  over  the  .garden. 'were  suni- 
nier-Iioiises,  the  walls  and  roofs  of  which  were 
the  trunks  and  hranches  of  growing  trees  and 
vines. 

The  religious  came  each  dav  to  sit  in  these 
bowers  for  an  hours'  relaxation  after  the  noon- 
day meal. 

There  were,  at  Saint  Trond.  three  separate 
iKuids,  the  priests,  the  students  and  the  novices 
each  of  which  had  its  own  particular  rules  of 
conduct. 

The  novices,  nho  were  going  through  the 
period  of  prohation  as  to  lltness  and  tempera- 
ment, led  much  the  stricter  life. 

Out  of  the  one  hundred  and  sixty-eio-ht 
hours  of  the  week,  they  must  keep  silence  one 
hundred  and  fifty-six. 

Eacli  Saturday  the  entire  day  was  spent  in 
retreat  and  absolute  silence. 

The  novices  never  spoke  before  one  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  of  any  day. 

However,  there  were  long  promenades  out 
111  the  country  and  pilgrimages  to  various 
shrines,  in  the  course  of  which  the  rule  of  si- 


m  r 


I'JJ 


KMIJKRS 


W 


Icucv  was  relaxed  and  the  novices  were  permit- 
ted to  speak. 

All  ihini^s  went  like  clockwork  in  the  noviti- 
ate: I'nncinality.  an^terity,  piety,  luiniility, 
obedience.  po\erl>-.  chastity,  fitted  into  the  rules 
ot  the  order  like  the  wheels  in  the  frame  of  the 
clock. 

And  the  least  false  tick  on  the  part  of  any  of 
these  was  detected  instanter  l)y  h'ather 
Devt)S.  the  ever  watchful  master  of  novices. 
Kind  to  a  fault,  this  loni^-.  thin,  saint-like  man 
could  equally  he  cruel  to  persecution — if  he 
once  helieved  that  the  chastenint;-,  the  ultimate 
perfectini;  of  the  novice  required  treatment  of 
a  heroic  nature. 

I J  is  favorite  method  of  puttinj,*-  a  religious  to 
the  test  was  to  despatch  him  on  some  particu- 
hirly  tryini;-  and  humiliating^  errand. 

This  usually  happened  while  the  three  com- 
munities were  in  recreation  in  their  different 
parts  of  the  garden. 

"Brother  So-and-so,"  he  would  say,  quite 
unexpectedly,  "run  in  haste  to  I-^ather  Rector 
and  ask  him  to  forgive  you  for  ever  coming 
here.     Kneel  before  him  until  I  send  for  you." 

"And  you,"  i)ointing  to  another,  "go  to  the 


EMr.ERS 


193 


students  and  tell  tlieni  that  the  convent  is  not 
iniilt  of  hrick.  hut  of  stone.  Tell  them  they 
have  nr)t  ^ood  eyes;  that  you  have;  and  that 
you  know  it  is  of  stone." 

"Did  you  tell  theni:^"  he  would  ask  the 
shame-faced  novice  upon  his  return,  a  few  mo- 
ments later.  •Well,  now  o-o  hack  to  them  and 
kneel  hefore  them  and  accuse  yourself  of  j:^ross 
vanity  and  of  sayin-;  that  which  you  knew  to 
I)c  untrue." 

Of  course,  these  self-accusinq-  mcsseni^^ers 
t'rom  the  novitiate  were  received  with  kindly 
snn'les  and  pityin^q-  ^dances  hy  the  priests  and 
students. 

I'^)r  these  latter  had  travelled  over  the  same 
desert  wastes,  to  the  joyful  oasis  of  their  pro- 
fession. 

When  the  doors  of  the  convent  closed  hehind 
Maurice  for  the  first  ti^uc,  he  stood  upon  stone 
na,£,^s,  hefore  a  hi.jrh  s:ratins:  of  thick  iron  bars. 

In  the  center  of  it  was  a  little  door. 

A  dim.  vacillating  tlame,  a  long  distance 
^ii,  conveyed  the  impression  to  his  gropi.ig 
tmnd  that  he  was  in  a  great,  empty  corridor.  "" 

But  he  saw  unclearly  and  stumbled  on  the 
Hags,  as  he  made  to  follow  the  priest. 


194 


EMBERS 


W 


w 


.At  tlu'  cud  ot  tlie  Ioiil;'  ^nacc.  a  wide  door 
opi'iu'il.  and  Mauficc  found  lliIn^(.■]f  iti  another 
corridor,  much  uiilcr  and  louL^cr  than  tlic  first. 

ddiis  was  well  lighted  with  lamps,  that  hunc^ 
from  the  ceiliiij^'. 

1 1  ere,  too.  the  lltior  was  of  stone. 

The  walls  were  \erv  w  hitc. 

An  air  of  cold  damp  chilled  Maurice. 

1  le  shi\ered  involuntarily,  partly  from  the 
cold,  partly  from  ;i  feelini;  of  nervousness  that 
now  o\  ercanie  him. 

The  priest  led  him  down  the  corridor,  past 
hi,L;hly-c<»l(tred  statues  of  saints,  mysterious 
arches  and  doorways,  and  hells  of  various  sizes, 
which  stood  out  grimly  a^-aiust  the  white  of  the 
w.alls,  their  Ioulj:  i"<'>pcs  dans^ling  slaek  to  the 
iloor. 

"Vim  must  be  liunq'ry,"  the  priest  said  at 
last,  to  Maurice,  as  they  came  to  a  door  lar_i[;er 
than  the  others. 

"\'es,  Father,  1  am,"  replied  IMaurice,  re- 
lieved somewhat. 

The  priest  pushed  o])en  the  door  and  they 
went  in. 

The  refectory  was  a  lonp^,  severe-lookinc^ 
room  with  rows  of  tables  alomj^  the  walls  and 
a  wide  empty  space  in  the  center. 


KM HERS 


195 


'rii'-rr  was  a  piili-it.  f.-r.ni  wliicli  tlie  k-rttircr 
rrad  aloiid  (h.riii--  tin,-  iiu-aN. 
^'viT  llic  pulpit  Iiiiii--  a  lari,a'  white  plaster 
^'Iiri>t  on  a  hiack  cfoss. 

I'Ih-  liead  was  incliiiefl. 

I'Ik'  liaiuls  and  feet,  pierced  witli  iron  spikes, 
l)k-d  i)r()fiisel7. 

I  lie  lett  side  was  torn  open,  and  revealed 
iIk-  red  llesh  on  the  wail>  of  the  terrible  wound. 
Hut  no  hlood  flowed  fr(»ni  the  opening. 

A  ,L;-reen  olive  branch  peeped  from  between 
tlie  livid  slunilder  of  the  C"hri>t  and  the  black 
wood  of  the  cross. 

riie  tables  were  covered  with  white  oilcloth, 
and  Maurice  noted  that  they  were  in  spotless 
condition. 

An  old  lay  brother,  very  fat  and  very  bald, 
kiid  a  substantial  meal  before  the  pair  and 
letched  the  indispensable  stone  jug  of  beer. 

Maurice  ate  heartily. 

He  had  nearly  done,  when  a  number  of 
priests  entered  the  refectory  and  came  up  to 
the  table. 

They  greeted  him  warmly,  and  asked  many 
questions  about  the  Belgian  Fathers  of  the 
order  in  Montreal. 


196 


EMBERS 


Tliey  were  like  a  large  family  of  boys;  and 
appeared  very  happy. 

I  liey  laui^hed  imich  and  seemed  quite  free 
from  care. 

It  was  now  late,  as  time  went  with  the  Sal- 
vatorists. 

So,  Maurice  was  taken  to  the  chapel  for  a 
moment's  pra>er  and  thence  to  his  room. 

I  he  rooms  of  .,ie  reli,<,^(.ius  were  pretty  much 
like  the  cells  of  the  older  and  more  austere 
orders  of  the  Church. 

With  this  excei)tion,  however,  that  they  were 
considerably  laro-cr,  well  liulued,  by  means  of 
larj^-e  windows,  and  thorouq;hly  ventilated. 

The  rooms  flanked  each  other,  running  down 
long,  narrow  corridors. 

The  name  of  each  religious,  printed  in  large, 
black  letters,  on  a  strip  of  heavy  cardboard,' 
stood  out  boldly  over  his  doorway. 

A  thick,  coarse  covering  of  jute  ran  the 
length  of  the  halls,  to  deaden  the  sounds  of  feet. 

:\Iaurice.  alone  in  his  room,  looked  about 
him. 

I  here  was  an  old  wooden  bed,  with  a  white 
covering,  in  one  corner. 


EMBERS  197 

At  tlie  foot  of  the  bed  stood  a  table ;  and  on 
tin's  was  a  desk  that  opened. 

Near  the  door,  he  saw  a  waslistand,  with 
ewer  and  basin  of  delph,  soap  and  towels. 
There  was  a  chair  over  near  the  window,  as 
thou<,di  someone  might  have  been  sitting  there, 
looking  out. 

A  crucifix  hung  on  the  wall,  over  the  desk; 
and  on  either  side  were  framed  pictures  of  Saint 
Ann  and  the  \'irgin. 

The  rough,  wooden  floor  was  bare. 

Maurice  placed  his  candle  on  the  desk  and 
breathed  a  long  sigh. 

Then  he  crossed  the  room  to  the  window. 

The  night  was  very  black. 

He  could  not  see  without. 

Something  scratched  against  the  panes. 

He  raised  the  window  and  thrust  out  his 
hand. 

It  was  the  branch  of  a  tree. 

He  seated  himself. 

The  chair  squeaked  and  startled  him. 

'J'he  wind  was  rising. 

It  moaneci  dolefully  in  the  branches  of  the 
trees. 

Lasalle  struggled  back  to  him. 


198 


EMBERS 


But  he  refused  himself  thouq-lit  of  home;  for 
lie  felt  that  he  was  very  near  to  S'ivin.i?  way, 
that  he  must  hattle  hard  against  the  call  of  the 
hlood,  else  turn  and  flee. 

Memories  surged  in  u\)nn  him,  in  great, 
tumultuous  waves. 

Some  were  women,  some  men,  some  places 
and  events. 

But  he  was  firm;  and  fought  them  off  one 
and  all.  as  he  would  have  done  deadly  foes. 

Elaine  received  like  treatment;  and,  for  that 
matter,  even  X'aldette  Bergvre. 

This  triumph  won,  he  felt  chastened  of  evil. 

A  sensation  of  sweet  peacefulness  stole  over 
him. 

He  knelt  by  the  side  of  the  bed  and  prayed  a 
long  while. 

It  was  late  in  the  niglU  when  he  rose  to  his 
leet. 

In  the  street  below,  roisterers  passed,  noisily, 
disturbing  the  (|uiet  of  the  night  with  ribald 
son""s. 

"Fools!"  he  exclaimed  to  himself,  in  a  tone 
that  had  s-.ir.ething  of  i)ity  and  contempt. 
I Je  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTP.R  SR\'R\TEEN 


AI 


111 


rice  awoke  to  the  new  dav  refreshed 


body  and  in  helter  spir 


m 


It; 


]]ell 


s  were  rin-^ino-  in  the 


convent:  but  he 


nicaiiinL'". 


knew  nau,q-ht  of  their 

Far    to  tlie    east,  a  bm-si    of  fire-like    h'-'I 
llanied  ag-ainst  a  sjiotless  back 

He  dressed  and  left  th 


It 


ground  of  bhie. 


e  room. 


e  doors  alon.-  the  corridor  sioud  open  f 


the  most  part 

'idle  occupants  were  "-one. 


or 


PJ 


e  came  to  a  stairway  at  the  end  of  the  hall 


and  follow 


cd  It  to  the  "ground  floor. 


Th 


impse  of  the  ijarden. 


rough  an  open  door,  M, 


lurice  cauQht  a 


H 


e  went  out. 


The 


:iir  was  sharp. 


IJc  judg-ed  the  hour  to  be  littl 


SIX  o'clock. 

TIebcg-an  to  walk;  and  a-^  1 
mitted  himself  to  reilect  on  tl 

1 199  J 


e  more  than 


le  w.'dked,  he  per- 
le  many  events 


200 


1 1 


iv 


EMBERS 


that  had  crowded  tlK-nisclvcs  into  liis  hfe  with- 
in so  sho'-l  a  time. 

He  came  to  tiic  vine-clad  wall  that  separated 
one  side  of  the  .i^arden  from  the  street. 

It  rose  he  fore  him  as  a  grim  reminder  of  his 
self-made  hondao-e— an  implacahle  harrier  he- 
tween  himself  and  the  world. 

The  tears  of  the  ni-ht  lay  heavy  in  the  hol- 
lows of  the  leaves;  and  liere  and  there,  a  filmy 
network  threaded  its  way  in  the  noo'-s  and  cor- 
ners of  the  foliage,  like  silver  spider-webs. 

From  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  the  harsh 
rai)pmo-  of  wooden  shoes  on  the  cohhles  of  the 
street  came  to  his  ear  in  rude  melange  with  the 
voices  of  workmen  on  their  way  to  the  shops. 
There  was  a  sound  of  steps  Ijehind  him. 
lie  turned  and  saw  Father  DeVos,  the 
master  of  novices,  coming  towards  him. 

"Good  morning,  my  dear  Brother  Rodray;  I 
thought  to  find  you  in  your  room,  but  you  were 
already  up  and  gone.  Did  you  have  a  good 
night's  rest?" 

"\es,  indeed,  heather:  a  very  good  nieht." 
^"Ah,  very  good— the  slee])  of  the  just,  eh? 
Nothing  like  a  clear  conscience,  n'cst-cc  pas, 
IMaurice.^     You    can    serve    at    Mass?     Yes? 


EMBERS 


201 


\'ery  n-cll ;  conic  alon-  and  servo  me.  I  shall 
send  tor  you  durin-  tlie  dav  and  we  shall  talk 
over  matters.  I  suppose  you  arc  anxious  to 
beo^m  your  noxitiatc  as  soon  as  possible >  It  is 
no  teathcr-bed  affair,  you  know,  this  novitiate 
ot  ours— no  velvet  cushions,  Alaurice,  you  un- 
derstand?" 

"I  didn't  expect — " 

"Of  course  not.  Here  we  arc-in  this  way 
^ou  will  tnid  cassock  and  surplice  in  vender 
closet." 

After  Mass,  Maurice  was  taken  in  chari^c  by 
a  protessed  student  who  was,  like  himself /from 
Canada. 

Brother  Haley  was  about  twenty  years  of 
ai?e  and  had  been  in  the  convent  some  four 
years. 

lie  conducted  Maurice  to  the  refectory. 

The  breakfast  was  eaten  in  silence.  It  con- 
sisted of  "tartines"-sandwichcs  of  bread  and 
butter,  and  a  large  bowl  of  coffee  and  chicorv 

After  breakfast.  Brotlier  Halev  led  Maurice 
over  the  conx  cnt  and  grounds,  plving  him,  the 
Wilde,  with  questions  about  xMontrcal;  and 
sharing  with  the  newcomer  reminiscences  of 


his  college  days  in  that  city. 


202 


EMBERS 


Maurice  ilioii^ht  he  dctecicd,  ril  tiipcs,  n  note 
of  re-ret  in  tlie  other'.s  voice— ri  .L^ieani  of 
liMio-ing  in  his  eyes,  as  he  spoke  of  the  far  away 
land. 

"Is  this  a  very  happy  hfe?"  he  asked  the 
brother,  snddeidy.  "Of  course,  you  knoH'— 
you  have  lieen  here  so  lon.q-." 

The  oilier  hoitated  a  moment. 

Ihen  lie  said:  "I  have  !)een  very  liappy 
liere." 

"But  now— perhaps  I  shoukhi't  ask;  Imt  I 
woukl  orjve  a  great  (\c:\\  to  know.  'WW  me.  are 
you  happy  now?" 

Again,  the  guide  was  slow  to  make  reply. 

r>nt  he  finally  sp(-,ke; 

"Xo  two  men's  lives  are  the  same.  And, 
therefore,  whether  or  not  I  am  ha])py  should 
not  affect  your  case  m  the  lea>>t.  in  fact,  I 
nng-ht  do  you  an  irreparable  injustice  by  speak- 
ing- of  my  own  experience  to  one  who  has  not 
as  yet  h.-id  the  oi)portunity  to  see  for  himself. 
r»m  T  will  say  this  to  you:  If  ever  you  are  in 
want  of  advice,  if  ever  you  feel  the  need  of  a 
Iriend.  I  want  you  to  come  to  me." 

Maurice  studied  the  face  of  the  brotlier  for 
a   space.     The  e)es   had   a  sad,   disappointed 


yv 


* 


EMBERS 


203 


look,  as  thous^rh  sonictliinq-  of  much  import  in 
Ii's  life  had  srone  wroni^-. 

Of  a  common  impulse,  their  hands  met. 

"f  will  do  it."  said  Maurice. 
^  The    ne ,     postulant  had    a  lon.ij  talk    with 
I''ather  De\'os  during-  the  dav. 

1 1  was  decided  he  would  take  the  hahit  and 
enter  the  novitiate  on  the  feast  of  the  Circum- 
cision. 

Gradually.  Maurice  settled  down  into  the  life 
of  the  community. 

Customs  and  penancs  which,  at  first,  had 
impressed  him  as  absurd  and  lau,r,diaole.  lost, 
to  his  eyes,  their  air  of  -rim  comedy;  and  now 
seemed  to  him  (juite  proper  and  in  keeping-  with 
the  life  of  the  convent. 

lie  found  consolation  in  prayer,  and  assur- 
ance of  forgiveness. 

He  thought  no  more  of  his  sins.  When  they 
came  before  him,  he  waved  them  aside  with  an 
'"Ave  Maria,"  as  he  would  a  temptation  of 
Satan. 

lie  looked  upon  these  transgressions  as 
shadows  from  anotiier  life;  not  as  facts  which 
had  taken  hnnh  by  his  consent  and  operation; 
but  as  myths,  paraded  now  before  his  eyes,  to 
drive  him  to  despair  and  shake  his  good  resolve. 


204 


EMBERS 


He  steeped  his  soul  in  meditation. 
^  It  was  not  Ion,-:  before  the  piety  of  Brother 
Rodray  was  noticed  and  commented  on  by  the 
reh"^-ious. 

Few  exceeded  him  in  acts  of  penitence. 

He  humbled  himself  on  least  occasion:  and 
practiced  tenderness  and  charity  towards  his 
brothers. 

And  in  his  heart  there  was  great  joy  at  the 
thoiio-ht  of  havin,!-  found  hai)i)iness.  " 

I  lis  mind  seldom  ran  to  home. 

"i.eave  all  and  follow  me"  did  not  mean  in 
the  body  alone,  but  in  the  heart  and  soul  like- 
wise. 

Lasalle  was  fornrotten.  A  brief  letter  at 
long  intervals,  in  uhich  he  spoke  of  his  new- 
found bliss  and  exhorted  his  people  to  prayer, 
was  the  only  worldly  distraction  that  broke  in 
upon  the  quiet  of  his  life. 

He  grudged  the  hours  he  gave,  perforce,  to 
recreation,  wishing  these  might  be  spent  be- 
fore an  image  of  the  X'irgin  or  her  holy  son. 

Alaurice  took  the  habit  on  the  feast  of  the 
Circumcision. 

It  was  a  great  day  in  the  convent,  when  a 
new  brother  was  chnhed  in  the  long  black  sou- 


KMBKRS 


205 


tanc  of  ;li.-  Otvlcr        \   .i       r  •   •  . 

y\'  ''I'ltr.      A  (lay  for  rcjoicin-  and 
tlianksoivinj:^.  f>    i  '" 

'I'l^^Tc  was    a    pontiHcal    Ilic.1,    Mass  i„  the 

clujrch  oMlKM-athcrs.  adjoining  the  convent. 
'  ^e   altar  was    illunn'ned    with  a    thousand 

•n,oti,in,„,|,,-,^,n,,,,,,,,.,,,^^^,^^.^. 

1-1.0  ui    ,-cc«.,  like  , he, H,„s,s  of  tortured  .souls 
1  lie  church  filled  raj)id)v. 

The  hio-  doors  .errunihled'on  thei'  hin-cs  a^ 
they  swuno-  to  and  fro.  t,  - ,     -^ 

The  scrapin,^  of  chairs,  the  loud  patter  of 
uooden  sahots.  on  the  stone  flai,^s  of  the  edi- 
lice,  were  deafenin<T-. 

Poor  and  rid,  alike  ean.e  to  see  the  corentony 
or  the  in  vesture.  ^ 

Those  wb.>  stood  spotless  before  their  God 
touched  elbow  •,  with  nan.eless  things  fron.  the 
slums,  near  th.  Barracks. 

The.e  denizens  of  the  denii-nionde  found  a 
-strange  fascination  in  this  spectacle  of  volun- 
tary renunciation  of  the  flesh  and  of  self 

After  the  Mass  came  the  ceremony-the 
stripping  off  of  the  secular  garments  in  plain 

v|ew  ottlKMuultitude;  and  the  taking  on  of   le 
Ijlack  gown  of  the  Order. 


206 


KMl'KRS 


I.   > 


lj 


\\  liilo  tlic  corcnKiiiv  \vas  in  progress,  the 
relicrious  of  the  convent  stood  in  a  semicircle 
around  the  sanctuary  and  clianted.  in  voices 
that  tlH'illcd  with  emotion,  tlie  liymn: 

"O,  quani  honuni  et  ciuam  jucundum 

Plahitare  fratre?  in  ununi !" 

"Oh.  liow  good  And  joyful  it  i? 

For  hrotlier^  to  live  together  a!s  one!" 
And  now.  Brother  Rodray  felt  that  Ils  cup 
of  happinc?5  was  near  to  overflowing. 

Clothed  in  the  rol^es  of  the  apostle,  a  crucifiy 
at  his  side  and  a  rosary  hanging  from  his  cein- 
ture.  he  went  to  his  room,  flung  himself  on  his 
knees  before  the  Christ,  and  wept  wild  tears  of 
cxtiltation. 


I*) 
ll 


ciiapti.:r  i:iGifTr':r£N 


Contrary  to  expectations,  it  wn«^  not  until 
the  second  week  in  Dcceiiil  .r  tliat  Ann  was  cle- 
hvered  of  Iut  fourth  child— a  hoy. 

'I'lie  mother  recovered  rapidly. 

The  youn-()\MaIK.v  thrived  at  the  hreast. 
I\rrs.  R,,(h-ay  had  '^ouc  to  .Montreal. 
A  letter  fro,,,  her  to  Alice  said  she  was  well 
and  haj)pier  than  in  n,anv  rears. 
_    She  expressed  some  anxic  v  over  Ann's  com- 
in-  accouchement ;  hut  made  no  other  reference 
to  the  Rod  ray  homestead  or  its  people. 

She  spoke  at  Icn-th  of  xMary  and  George,  in 
whom  her  Iicart  now  seemed  to  he  centered; 
and  of  Maurice,  across  the  sea. 

The  old  fcelin-  of  anta,c:onism  and  bitterness 
seemed  to  have  lost  its  ed^-c. 

She  sent  her  love  to  Francois  and  hoped 
that  Alice's  child,  which  was  expected  some 
tmie  m  the  spring,  would  be,  as  he  wished  a 
son.  ' 

[207] 


I(i 


208 


i-:mi:I':rs 


SIic  thonoht  sIk'  nii-lit  I,c  l,;.,-k  in  L.isalle 
hy  \\\c  time  of  Alice's  conriiu-niciit  ;  .itid,  in  tliat 
event,  would  i^ladly  render  what  assistance  lay 
in  her  power. 

She  was  attendiiinr  Mass,  daily,  at  the  Jesu- 
it-, where  she  saw  Cicori^e.  servin,<^  the  priest. 

It  was  a  ,<;reat  relief  to  he  away  from  La- 
sall.  and  feel  the  unhounded  freedom  of  a  lai-a- 
city. 

No  one  seemed  to  care,  no  one  seemed  to  sec 
wliat  his  iieij^dihor  did. 

Alice  must  he  careful  of  her  health. 

It  would  iie\er  do  for  lu'r  to  take  cold,  or 
S:et  her  feet  wet.  now. 

She  rememhered  them  in  her  prayers;  and 
hoped  to  find  them  well  and  happy  upon  her 
return. 

Alice  took  the  letter  with  her  to  Lasalle.  and 
read  it  to  the  O'Malleys. 

Ami  was  Ljlad  to  receive  news  from  her 
mother;  and  the  children,  who  wore  .q-rowin.q- 
like  weeds,  in  the  country  air,  gathered  round 
her  to  listen  to  the  reading. 

(/Alalley,  himself,  who  had  seen  the  Greg- 
oire    team    hitched    i^ear    the    front   entrance, 


K.Mi'.I-kS 


209 


'^'■mii.ol  Iiravilv   inf.  tl 
'»  'Ih'  m'.ircst  cli.iir. 


ic  n  K  > 


ml 


"1  aiul  sank  limply 


'<'  \v.is  \vvy  rlriink. 


Mis  I 


I  air  I'd  I  dnw 


i>^  hii-i'Iu-ad;  ji 


11  m  a  r,iL'-v<I  frin; 


1^  I'M's  had 


,(.•  over 


aii'l   Ins   i(.n-iic   I 


mn 


'lit 


i<  iiK'd 


■I  \^  i'lo.  stupid  stare 
"1    Ill's   iiK.iitli   and 


1^'  ,^riimcd  at  Alici"  I 


S 


>nt  said  notliititr. 


"1^"^'  '"^  iiK'thcr  in  law  had  -one  to  M 


"•^•al.  f)'.Mallcy  held  nn<lisp„ted 
hoiiiesiead. 


on- 


swav  over  tl 


le 


'Hu-  el.ier    Rodray  remained,    tor   the   most 


part.  ai)out   the  hon.> 


md  A 


c-ares  to  the  l.edrooms  and  the  kitcl 


nn  confined  her 


What 
to  no\els. 


ion. 


line  was  lett  over  from  theses! 


O'Alalley.  his  Jicad 


^'t   wealth  and  ease,  stn.d 


le  fjave 


swnnnnni,^  with  visions 


like  the  proudest  of  cocl 


c  over  the  harnvard. 


onle 


rs   to    f 


jini.  or  e.\j)Iainin<'-  h 


<s.  ,t;ivm^-  j)ereniptf)rv 


ou,i;ht  or  oui^ht  not  to  he  d 


.^^  now  soniethniir 


one. 


I'll'  It  was  in  the  store  lint  he  held 
'"li^;  i'llc  of  the   villa-e  made  of 

I'leir  ta\-orite  haunt. 

I  Ikw  sat  around,  throuo-h  the  1 

''ays,  on  chairs,  b. 


court, 
the  store 


oxes  and  ke 


oiisj  wniter 


g's.  chcwmq-  to- 


I't  ! 


210 


EMBERS 


1)acco  and  smoking-  their  pijies,  jxirin^-  apples 
or  \\lmt]!iii^-  sticks,  and  listening;-  reverently  to 
the  w  ise  saws  of  tlie  overlord. 

hew  made  so  hold  as  to  take  exception  to  his 
nihn--s.  For  the  heat  I'roni  the  stove  was  al- 
luring-: and.  after  all.  it  was  only  a  matter  of 
sdein  >nhmis<ion— not  ...  all  a  prostitution  of 
principles. 

So.  they  smoked  and  chewed  and  ncxlded 
their  heads;  and  wondered  where  O'AIalley 
was  gettino-  his  drams 

For.  of  late,  he  was  seldom  sober. 
The  fact  th;it  (  )\Malley  was  now  drunk  the 
greater  part  of  the  time  did  not  in  anv  way 
tend  to  affect  the  respectful  attitude  of  his  sat- 
ellites toward  him. 

On  the  contrary,  they  th<-.nght  more  of  him 
for  it,  n  arvelling.  as  they  did,  that  one  could 
he  so  wise  and  yet  so  drunk. 

iUit  they  kei)t  a  watcht'ul  eye  for  the  hidden 
treasnre  and  advanced  many  theories,  anion"- 
themselves,  as  to  its  whereabouts. 

For  they  knew  he  must  have  liquor  hidden 
somewhere  al)out  the  place,  as  a  man  could  not 
get  drunk  on  water;  and  O'Malley  never  went 
to  the  village  tavern. 


EMBERS 


211 


One  (I.uy.  P.artlett.  tlie  dean  of  the  cronies 
came  mlo  the  store  c,uite  unexpectedly,  when 
[  A  alley  had  the  jug;  tihed  lu^h  and  pressed  to 
Jus  hps. 

This  discovery  was  the  cause  of  a  conspir- 
acy hetween  tlie  storekeeper  and  Bartlett  as 
attectin-  the  otiiers  of  the  circle. 

The  secret  lix-cd  undisturhed  for  a  while;  and 
J>artiett  made  regular  trips  to  the  store  for  a 
dram  while  the  others  were  away. 

But  Kdens  are  too  ideal  to  endure. 

Bartlett  uas  g-jvcn  charg-e  of  the  store,  for 
a  tew  hours,  one  day,  while  O'AIalley  drove 
to  the  Point. 

_    When  the  latter  returned,  Bartlett  was  danc- 
ing- an  Irish  jig. 

The  cronies  had  formed  a  ring  about  him 
I  hey  were  clapping  their  hands,  stamping 
their  teet  and  shouting  hilarious  approval. 
All  were  drunk. 

O'Alalley's  jug  lay  on  its  side,  near  the  stove 
the  cork  out. 

The  spirit  of  cnviviality  f^nallv  melted 
O  Malley.  who,  at  first,  cast  indignant  glances 
at  Bartlett. 

But,  being,  himself,  in  cups,  he  thought  bet- 


212 


EMBERS 


le 


II 


n: 


tcr  of  liis  earlier  mood,  nnd  went  out   to  tl 
sleii^Ii  for  another  jut;-. 

I  Ill's  was  the  crownini^-  event. 

iloneel..nh    O'Malley    was    tlie   ood   of   the 
I'il)iili.iis  in  I.asalle. 

\i  swelled  him  wiili  pride  to  see  this  swarm 
<>t  Ih'es  ahout  him. 

It  ,i;-ave  him  a  i)ronounced  o    nion  of  his  ini- 
portanee  in  the  eommunity. 

He  fell  liimself  ,L,n-ovin,<,'-  in  prestige. 
It  was  a  splendid  thin--,  this  mixing  a  bit 
wnh  liis  fellows. 

They  were  all  his  friends. 
1  hey  had  no  money,  true  cnou"-)i. 
But  he  had. 

And  money  and  friendship  were  snrelv  more 
to  he  desired  than  money  alone. 

After  some  thouQht  he  decided  to  take  a 
larger  jng  to  the  Point. 

And  now  the  store  seemed  to  take  on  new 
lite,  (jrave  questions  of  state  were  hot'y  dis- 
cussed. 

There  were  songs  and  jigs  and  games  of 
cards  and  checkers. 

There  was  warmth:  and  merrymaking  from 
early  morning  until  la,e  in  the  ni-dit. 


EMBERS 


213 


And  in  tl;  midst  of  the  scene  O'Malley 
niove.I  al)'.in,  co(,l.  imperiurbable,  the  leadini^ 
spirit  of  them  all  and  the  wilh'ni,-  disj)enser  ol 
liospitaHty. 

He  took  no  active  part  in  the  games  or  dis- 
cussions, preferring  to  hold  aloof  and  sit  in 
iniiKirlial  judgment  on  the  questions  left  to  his 
decision,  as  the  final  court. 

One  day,  Isidore  Lalonde  happened  into  the 
store  and  got  a  whiff  of  the  whisky. 

1  le  w alked  o\er  to  the  jug,  whicli  was  stand- 
ing uncorked  on  the  counter,  and  raising  it  to 
liis  lips,  took  a  stiff  drink  and  laid  it  down 


agam. 


And  now,  he,  too,  became  a  daily  visitor  at 
the  store. 

The  strong  licjuor  made  him  very  fiery;  and 
he  invariably  sought  battle  while  in  his  cups. 

But  there  was  none  in  the  set  that  would  face 
him;  for  he  was  very  formidable,  and  more- 
over, scowled  terribly  and  gnashed  his  teeth. 

O'AIalley  regretted  having  let  him  into  the 
secret;  the  more  so  because  Isidore  was  be- 
coming a  bully,  taking  advantage  of  his  supe- 
rior strength  to  sneer  and  rail  at  the  others. 


214 


KMBERS 


)  ^ 


u 
i  ■ 


spit  very  iH-ar  to  ihcir  feet 

co,!,e  ,,"■""'''   ""'■'■,' ''-•■•■""■■"S  oaths  and 

C'.ne  cl,nv„  „,„„,  the  cottmer  „ith  his  fist  as 

"'?,","'"  "  "^■'■^'  '-  f""  inlenlio,,  to  s,„ash  it     " 

1  lie,,   sat,s|-,ed  at  the  lert-or  he  had  inspire,!, 
.e  nottid  shrtts  Lis  great,  sr,t,are  shot,  der, 
lansh  londly  i„  their  faces  and  stride  o„t  of  ti, 
slore,  slanmiins-  Hie  door  hehin<l  him 

Soher   he  „„,„        .,,.-,,  .and  cha,  pleasantly, 
liiNeanyliahit.anl 

r.ut.  drunk,  he  „as  the  terror  of  the  O'Mal- 
icy  circle. 

_  Isidore  became  sullen  about  the  house      At 
times  he  was  very  sulky, 

Mannnan  Lc  Blanc' was  chagrined  at  the 
chang-e  m  her  nephew;  and.  one  day,  asked  him 
why  he  no  longer  seemed  pleased  to  work  for 
her. 

"\\'hat  has  o-one  wrong-  v/ith  you,  Isidore^" 
she  enciuired.  "Haye  we  displeased  you  in  any 
wa}^ ."  '  -^ 

^    Isidore  was  at  his  soup.     "Displeased  me'" 
lie  exc  am,ed.  looking  up  into  ,he  woman  s  face 
"^'nk  you  I  am  a  king.^     Displeased:  why 
no;  how  could  you  displease  me?" 


EMBERS 


215 


"Well,  perhaps  I  was  hasty.  But,  you  never 
si>cak.  r>t  laic,  oxccpt  in  yes'  and  'no' ;  and,  you 
kn.nv,  ue-rc  all  in  the  family.  La  Petite  spoke 
to  me  alxnit  it.  this  nicrnin-;  and  I  thought  I 
would  ask  vou." 

"Ah,  la  Petite."  he  replied  ahsentlv,  droppin^r 
Ins  sp<H,n  in  the  houl.  "By  the  way;  Alamman"; 
what  thmk  you  of  the  way  they  have  treated 
lier.'" 

"Who?" 

"Who  •  Why.  the  Rodravs  vonder,  of  cour.se 
—who  else?  Afaurice  Rodray,  who  has  taken 
fliglit  to  a  convent  to  have  his  crown  shaved— 
you  think  I  don't  know?  I  am  one  of  the  fam- 
ily, as  you  say;  and  yet  you  think  this  does  not 
sting?  Let  me  tell  you,  Mamman,  someone's 
g-omo-  to  smart  for  this ;  my  word  for  it,  some- 
one will  pay  the  toll !" 

"Who  told  you  it  was  ALiurice?"  a.sked 
lAIamman,  coming  closer  and  lowering  her  voice 
to  a  whimper. 

"O'AIallev." 

"What?"' 

"^  es— and  no  one  else.   Did  vou  not  know^" 
"Ves.  of  course;  Elaine  told  me.     But    that 
the  Rodrays  should  know  the  truth  and  still 
encourage  him  to  hecome  a  priest!" 


216 


EAllJERS 


\.lMhcy(lokn.>u-.jn.t  the  same;  that  is, 
O.MalK-y  <lues.  ]\,  ^vas  drunk  uluai  he  told 
'"e:an.l  I  pretended  that  T  was  too.  I'.ut  oh 
tlierell  he  a  rerkonin."-!  ft  will  strike  the 
clanined  hreed  to  its  heart.  There'll  he  venge- 
ance a-plenty.  Why.  1  wanted  'la  Petite'  ?or 
niysclt ! 

"^id  you  approach  iier?" 

/•Vcs,  I  .\n\.  Dut  she'd  have  naught  to  do 
withnie.  I  toldher  I  did  not  eare  ahout  the 
other  thin^-.  And  what  do  vou  think  she  said^ 
Mie  tol.l  n,e  there  could  ncNer  he  anvthinq-  he- 
tween  us;  and  ad<ed  nie  to  leave  the  room 
Acnv.  Isidore,'  she  said,  'won't  von  please  leave 

me.-      1  Ills  tome,  who  could  have  had  any  girl 

111  S-unt  Lambert  for  the  asking!" 

"Don't   do  anything  you   mav  have   cau^c 

to  regret."  said  Mamman.  timidh-;  for  she  saw 

that  Isidore  was  shaking  with  passion. 

^  "I  said  there  would  he  a  reckoning  "  he  re- 
joined, rising  trom  the  tahle  and  lighting  his 
pipe.  ''And  J'ni  not  one  who  is  given  to  idle 
llireats. 

With  that  !,c  picked  up  the  huckets  of  swill 
under  the  sink  and  marched  off  to';ards  the 
Pig^ty. 


u 


CIIAITF.R    XrXRTKEN 


Wint 


or  j)as.scd. 


And  Sprin; 


came  on  tlic  winds  of  M 


^\•rcatlKvl  in  ])ud  and  bl 


ossom. 


IV 


TI 


c   n 


n 


Ncr   o-roancd  I)cncatli   its  burthen  of 


Pl 


'>c  troni  the  upper  waters,  disci 


larjjuit,'-  o-reat 


lalano-cs  ot  iee  upon  its  banks,  which' niehed 


in  the  noonday  sun  and  ran  d 
rL'jinn  the  strea'.i. 


own  eag-erly  to 


Hie  I)rooks  rose  U])  and  overflowed,  fecun- 


datin."-  the  eartl 


Dandehons 


•s  dotted  tht 


fiekls  with  gokk 
Tlie  eartli  beamed 


reen  carpet  of  the 


All 


in  sunh'oflit. 


ness. 


nature  joined  in  a  wild  medley  of  "-lad- 


Men  drove  their  teams  a-field, 
ily-  or  whistlini^r  old  French  airs.' 


sinmns:  lust- 


rum far  and  wide,  the  "habitants"  rod 


Lasalle,  t 


o 


market.     Thev  lin^-ered  1 


wa 


rm  sun,  chatting  pleasantly. 

tJ17J 


e  nito 


ong  in  the 


!|i 


218 


EMIJERS 


Isidore  went  over  the  farm,  scttino-  „,,  the 
faiccs  an.l  scrapino-  the  ditches  to  facilitate 
tile  draiiiai^e  of  the  soil. 

He  turned  the  cattle  into  the  pasture  and 
Plouo-hed  the  fields  for  the  sowin-  of  .£^rain 

rnder  his  care,  the  h  ;  ,es  slione  sleek  and 
round. 

Their  lono-  release  from  work  made  them 
wild  and  fiery. 

Tliey  would  -all.)p  over  the  field,  kickin- 
then-  heels  m  air  and  nei^^hini,'-. 

I'.ut  they  loved  their  keeper;  and.  in  their 
fn.hcs.  seemed  nnndful  of  his  safelv,  if  he  hap- 
pened ahout. 

The  hio-.  suarthy  fellow  would  stand  in  the 

open  field,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  hlow- 

"l^-  .£;reat  whiffs  from  his  pipe,  and  watch  the 

icrd   of   cr.ants   trampling  the   ground  ahout 

him. 

At  times  they  would  come  suddenly  to  a  stop 
and  ook  at  Isidore,  as  thoi-h  expec'ting  some 
word  of  mouth  from  their  master 

I  aloncle  would  take  his  nij^e  from  his  lips 
and  laugh  loudly  m  their  faces. 

"r)n  with  you.  good-t-or-no.hings!"  he  would 
CO,  as  he  nnght  have  spoken  to  children  at 


EMBERS 


219 


And  they,  iinclcrstandino:.  would  turn  about 
and  ,l,^-dI()I)  off  madly  a.^-ain. 

Isidore  ha<l  made  no  further  advances  to 
Llaine. 

He  contented  himself  with  eyeini,^  her  fur- 
lively  when  she  happened  to  he  near  him  or 
caressmnr  tjie  baby,  of  which  he  was  cxtremelr 
fond. 

He  brou.n^ht  wild  floNvers  from  the  woods  and 
fields  and  armfuls  of  satiny  catkins  from  the 
^\  diows  along-  the  river  hanks. 

These  he  gave  Mamman  for  "la  Petite"-  or 
laid  them  on  the  table  before  Elaine  without 
speaking. 

But  his  soul  was  wrought  with  great  passion 
and  hatred  of  Maurice,  whom  he  had  never 
known,  and  likewise  of  all  the  Rodrays. 

He  counted  the  years  that  must  elapse  before 
Maurice  might  return  from  abroad. 

It  would  be  too  long  to  wait. 

He  wondered,  himself,  why  he  hated  this 
prie..  h'ng  so. 

For  he  admitted  grudginglv  to  himself  that 
Maurice  had  done  no  more  than  might  be  ex- 
pected of  any  one ;  and  certainly  no  more  than 
he  himself  had  done  many  times  in  his  life. 


!|l 


220 


KMniiRS 


Km 


['^■l"voIianncui,I,  sava:,v.aninu,II.>vo 
.    '>"lielid,l..  in  il,c"  Lams.  >lie  was  ever  be- 
J'Tc  Iiim. 

jj^'^  '•''•''''  •'■'^-'-^  ■•'"'Mr-  lonox^d  to  HMhracc 

nu(lI.cunni.nfI,erownlipscan>ctohi„, 
cliillin,','-  and  cruel: 

"There  can  never  he  anvthin-  hetween  us" 

""/  '''^■"-  ^^-'^^vhy  he  hate.I.Maurire:  he- 
cause  he  had  oune  hefore  hun,  leaving  hho-hied 

;"'"V'''^''^'""^''^^^^''''"l^^'-^'>/-lse;nuist 
l!a\e  heen  his. 

He  threshed  over  , he  n,atter  manv  limes,  al 
nis  work  ,,r  m  hed  at  nioht. 

lie  had  little  rest. 

He  devised  many  plans  ("or  reven-e 

I>nt  al,vays  there  uas  a  flaw  somewhere  in 
tlie  scheme. 

TlK-re  was  danger  of  detection  liere,  cer- 
tamty  of  discovery  there. 

One  da^.  when 'the  fields  were  plot,c,hed  and 
the  ^rass  fluttered  thick  and  soft  in  the  warm 
uuid.  a  techno-  ..f  i,,„i,„i,  ^._.^„^^.  ^^^.^^,  j^.^^^^,^ 

J  le  wandered  oxer  to  the  river  hank  where 
>e  la)-  down  and  watched  the  stream  ^o  rum- 
hhng  by.  ^^ 


K.Mr.KRS 


221 


II 


('    s 


.'ipart. 


I'"\vc<I  iiiik-h  inclination,  of  laic    to  I 


)e 


\\  lid  ])vc^  ImniiiK'd  ahuul  h 


^nii.      ( 


iiii.  in  llic  dad 


"US   canii-  >uin-in,<^-  dnwn.    from   d 
I'a>lure  near  l.y.  to  drink  at  the  water's  cd- 


le 


r.ird>  |] 


ew  near  to  him  for  ,stra 


w 


\v>  and  sticks 


liich   ihcy   took  auay  in   their   hills   to   tl 


iK'sts  in  the  trees. 


icir 


ft 


n  the  distance  a  cowd)elI  tinkled  faintly, 
was  the  season  of  mat 


he 


sn 


l>idnre    thon;;ht     loiii--    of    }.;] 
anty;  of  the  wrongs  .she  had  1 
ffer. 

Then  the  hoi)elessness  of  ] 
to  him  and  he  sprang  to  his  f 
awfnl  oath. 


niL!f  and  of  love. 


line;    of    her 
)cen  made  to 


lis  snit  recnrred 
cet  ntterinsf  an 


for 


He  went  hack  to  the  honse. 

'Idiat  ni-ht,  after  snpper,  he  asked  M 


hert. 


'I  day  oh,  to  visit  hi> 


aminan 


peoi)le  in  Saint  Lam- 


imn 


lan  consented  readily  to  th 


IS. 


was  a  passenefcr  on 


On  the  morrcnv.  Isidore 
the  Montreal  exj)ress. 

Bnt  he  did  not  step  off  at  Saint  Lambert. 

Instead,  he  went  on  to  Long  Point  to 
Baptiste. 


see 


'U 


222 


KMilKRS 


l''U-k  iK-ar  tik'  asylum. 

^Ianyo|,lK.„nn-viMK.nt  niniatrs  urrc  (hero 

'|^;>^rnK..l,|n,u.I,u„lan<lwasvcrv^a<llo 

IIc..skc-<i,incMio„.  a,u!;;avccai-oalllhc 
<»iIht  had  to  say. 

;'-\r>.l  -la   iVtitc-  he  said  Hnallv.  his  eves 


i>riiiinim^-. 


"Ah 

tistc." 


yt.-s.  'tis  on  her  account   T  came,  Bap- 


■■Ila>  s<.nietlu-n-  happened  her?"  he  asked 
starling-  up. 

;l^'-'U^b    has    happened,"    n'-.^e,!    Isidore 
^'"t   -""t  Ret   ,xcncd;  you   u  u.  need   vvhai 
nerve  you  have  hefore  this  afTair  is  over  with  " 
^^-^  on :  tell  me  ahout  it,"  hroke  m  Le  iJlanc 

■^'^^■^'i;'<l  a  child  since  you've  come  here. 
And  ulio  do  you  suppose  is  the  father  of  it?" 
"Maurice  Rodray,  of  course." 

knel?"      '"■'     '"'"'      ^'^''''''-        ^"^->-°^^ 

"Ves.  I  knen-but  he  .c^ot  away.  I  went  to 
AJontreal  to  see  him  tlie  (Lay  he  sailed.  I  was 
late  by  several  hours.    The  ship  was  gone  " 


EMIiERS 


223 


.k-nl 


And  your  IkmIiIi^"  cnquirol  Lalond 


c  sud- 


s'.  sci"iiliiii/in 


1 1 


apti^tc. 


'I'lTUrt.'"    rr|)lir,l   iln-   laitcr;   ''hut    fr)r   tl 


ic 


iViin 


Is,  every  wnk  or  two.     |;iit.  uliat  ahoat  'la 


Wdl. 


to  "la  iVtitc"  luT^rlf.  there's  litlk 


to  say,  l)e\(.n(l  the  fart  that   ->! 
11(1 


10  lias  the  child 


and  is  ruined  for  lit'e  in  the  coniiiuinitv.     'id 
doo-   who  sedneed   her    is   over   tl 


le 


le    seas. 


So 


what's  to  he  done?  l]ai)ti>te.  we're  of  the  same 
hloud.  Are  you  conteni  to  snore  upon  it?  Or 
tlo  you   understand   me?       is   there   to   he   no 


reel' 


(lav 


.omui 


W 


ly   are   \(tu   conliued   here   to- 


Is  it  not  on 


account  of  the  (lis<'Tace  to 


your  family  and  the  wron-^s  heaj)ed  upon  1 


i  elite"? 


^  "Hut,"  said  r.apliste.  "wliat  would  you  do? 
\-U  nie  why  you've  come  here.     1  don't  k 


what  vou  want  of  me. 


now 


'\'cry  well.     When  xMaurice  Rodrav  defiled 


'la  Petite'  he  struck  at 
Is  that  not  soi 

"Yes." 

"Good;  then.  I  say  it 
and  all,  which  should  he 


cvervone  of  her  hlood. 


is  an  insult  to  us,  one 


'How  so?    He';   :ot  iiere!' 


repaid  in  kind. 


224 


EMBERS 


"We  will  strike  at  tlio  Rodrays:  l)nrn  their 
i)anis  and  slaMes.  the  store,  the  homestead. 
Ah.  r,ai)ii-~te.  1  have  planned  a  hrilliant  coiip- 
de-niain.  And  you're  to  take  the  leadini;-  part, 
as  yon  were  the  party  most  wronj^'ed.  ^'on're 
to  make  your  e^eape  t'rom  here,  at  niijiit ;  jour- 
ney hy  stealth  to  l.asalle  .md  set  the  match.  I 
have  thouLdn  it  all  out.  The  doctors  sav  vou 
are  crazy.  So.  you  cannot  he  ])unishe(k  If  I 
sh.ould  he  caught  having-  a  hand  in  it.  it  would 
mean  the  rope  for  me.  But  you — they  could 
do  no  more  than  send  you  hack  here.  Ah,  my 
man,  that  would  he  a  honlire  worth  seeinsr, 
would  it  not  ?    And  to  think  that  you  would  be 


revenL;'e(! 


Baptiste's  e}-es  snajiped  lire  and  his  hands 
clutche  :  nerxously  at  hi.,  coat. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  sai'.'  hoarselv;  "\es.  yes." 

"\'ou  would  ha\e  no  trouble  i^ettinu;-  to  Ea- 
salle,"  continued  Isidore.  "In  fact,  none  would 
ha\'e  to  kni'W  who  set  the  match." 

lie  ceased  -peakin.^-  for  a  moment  to  look  at 
I'aptiste.  who  was  eyeing'  him  closely. 

The  face  of  the  mani;;c  was  \ery  while  and 
his  eyes  were  like  balls  of  glass. 


EMBERS 


225 


"What's  wroncf.  Baptiste?"  said  Isidore, 
turnini^  pale  himself. 

Baptiste  made  no  rejily:  but,  suddenly,  lie 
sprang-  to  his  feet,  and,  clutching  Lalonde 
aliont  the  throat,  hurled  him,  with  terrific  im- 
pact, to  the  ground,  and  brought  his  boot  down 
hea\-ily  on  his  chest. 

Then,  without  s|)eaking  a  word,  Le  Blanc 
turned  towards  the  keeper  wiio  was  running  to 
him.  and  walked  stiffly  off  without  glancing 
back  at  Lalonde. 

The  doctoi-  saw  the  incident  from  a  window 
of  the  office  and  hurried  down  the  pathway  to 
Isidore. 

"Are  vou  hurt?"  he  enquired. 

"No,  sir." 

"Do  you  know  the  name  of  the  patient  who 
attacked  you?" 

"Yes,  sir — Baptiste  Le  Blanc  is  his  name; 
he  is  my  uncle.  We  had  no  words.  It  came 
on  him  quite  suddenly." 

"Oh,  Le  Blanc — from  Lasalle.  He  has  those 
spells  frequently  of  late.  I  fear  we  shall  have 
to  shift  him  to  another  ward." 

Isidore,  liis  heart  full  of  bitterness  at  this, 
his  disappointment,  went  back  to  Lasalle. 


CHAPTER   TWRXTY 


]Mrs.  Roflrav  liad  come  in  haste  from  ]\Ion- 
treal  and  ,q"one  on  to  Saint  \  ;ilentinc,  where 
AHcc  was  not  expected  to  hve. 

She  had  .c^ivcn  birth  to  a  twelve-ponnd  boy. 

Three  doctors  were  in  attendance. 

Thev  feared  ])eritonilis  mii^ht  develop  at  any 
moment. 

Francois,  the  husband,  was  in  a  frenzy  of 
ji^rief.  He  refused  to  look  at  the  child,  for  it.s 
part  in  the  mother's  suffering. 

He  n  alked  the  tloor  like  a  madman,  stopping- 
only  to  implore  the  physicians,  for  the  hun- 
dredth time,  to  save  Alice. 

Mrs.  Rodray  knelt  at  the  bedside  and  prayed 
for  the  recovery  ot'  her  daughter. 

William,  the  father,  was  there. 

He  was  aging  rapidly. 

He  said  no  \v'ord;  but.  leaning  on  his  cane, 
gazed  stolidly  down  upon  his  daughter's  face, 
which  was  deathlike  in  its  paleness. 

[226] 


EMBERS 


227 


From  the  room  beyond  came  the  squalling-  of 
the  newborn  anri  the  chrttering-  of  the  nurse. 

Through  the  open  windows,  the  subdued 
voices  of  children  came  into  the  sick  room. 

Thev  were  talking  about  the  Gregoire  in- 
fant,  which  they  were  anxious  to  see. 

A  cool  breeze  fanned  the  face  of  the  sick 
woni.-in.  Huttering  the  hair  ujxm  her  forehead 
and  temples. 

The  parish  priest  came. 

He  was  very  fat;  and  wabbled  about  the 
room  clumsily,  panting. 

The  others  left  the  room. 

In  a  few  moments  they  Wv.e  permitted  to 
return. 

There  were  I'ghted  candles  near  Alice. 

The  doctors  made  another  examination. 

There  was  no  hope. 

She  would  die. 

Francois  groaned  loudly  and  tiung  himself 
on  his  knees,  his  arm  over  Alice,  his  face  upon 
hers. 

They  knelt  in  a  circle  about  the  bed. 

■Mrs.  Rodray  placed  a  crucifix  in  the  dying 
woman's  hands : 


mf. 


i 

'     ■ 

> 

r  ■ 

• 

1 

228 


EMBERS 


"Ha\c  mercy  on  n-^.  O,  Lord!"  she  was  say- 
ing. 

The  priest  intoned  the  prayers  for  the  dying. 

The  sun  had  sank  to  rest,  when  a  shght  fall 
of  the  coverlet  told  of  the  passing. 

!\lrs.  Rodra\-  was  the  last  to  leave  the  cham- 
her. 

With  clock-like  regularity  she  kept  up  her 
sing-song  jirayer : 

"  Have  mercy  on  us,  O.  Lord,  have  mercy 
on  us!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE. 


The  two  years  of  Brother  Rodray's  novitiate 
went  by.  Aq-ain  it  was  tlie  feast  of  the  Circum- 
cision; and  again  the  ahar  wa>  resplendent  in 
the  hght  of  many  Hames. 

Manv  had  been  his  trials. 

But  he  had  borne  them  cheerfully  through 
out,  believing  them,  as  he  did,  to  be  manifesta- 
tions of  God's  love  for  him. 

He  had  given  proof  upon  proof  of  his  piety 
and  devotion. 

He  was  looked  upon  as  one  far  advanced  in 
the  |)ath\\a\'s  of  sanctity. 

None  among  the  Fathers  (juestioned  his 
fitness  for  the  religious  life. 

He  was  admitted  to  profession. 

Seven  others  took,  with  him,  the  vows  of 
Poverty,  Chastity  and  Obedience,  for  life. 

Each  was  given  a  little,  three-cornered  bi- 
retta  and  a  wider  belt  than  that  worn  by  the 
novices. 

[229] 


J30 


EMBERS 


t 


The  ceremony  was  very  simple;  and  con- 
sisted merely  in  the  profession  of  the  vows. 

Tn  the  afternoon  Brother  Rodray  passed 
from  the  novitiate  into  the  "stndentnt"  or 
house  of  studies,  to  resnme  his  course  for  the 
priesthood. 

Here  the  disci|)lino  was  less  rii;'oron^  than 
in  the  novitiate. 

Tt  was  quite  a  holiday  in  the  convent. 

The  students  went  for  a  promenade  in  the 
country. 

It  was  a  new  lit'e  I'or  Brother  Rodray. 

There  was  more  freedom  here. 

One  was  less  under  constraint — more  at 
ease. 

He  wondered,  nevertheless,  if  this  world 
not.  in  time,  have  a  tendency  to  cool  his  ardor, 
to  relax  his  vii^ilance  over  himself  and  his  cu- 
pidities; for  he  knew  these  were  by  no  means 
dead. 

A  thought  strtick  him:  ])erhaps  this  would 
be  the  hardest  trial  of  all. 

The  idea  pained  him.  lie  resolved  to  banish 
it  as  an  evil  suggestion. 

They  walked  far,  along  the  "chemin  de 
Liege." 


EMBERS 


231 


The  fields  lay  beneath  a  thin  mantle  of  snow, 
o\er  which  harer  zigzagged  crazily. 

llie  sky  wTiS  leaden;  the  air  damp  and  raw; 
tlie  road  rough  to  the  f(^ot. 

It  was  the  same  road  he  had  trodden  these 
two  year^,  unchanged  even  to  the  slightest 
detail. 

P)Ht  to-day  it  seemed  unbounded,  broader 
tlian  before,  like  the  life  which  he  was  pleased 
to  picture  before  him. 

Came  to  his  mind  the  words:  "Many  are 
called  but  few  are  chosen,"  and  he  shuddered. 

Could  such  a  thing  ever  come  to  pass  that  he 
would  renounce  his  sacred  vows  and  go  back 
into  the  whirlpool  which  he  had  fled? 

No,  no,  a  thousand  times. 

And.  yet,  others  had  gone  through  the  same 
irdeal,  had  taken  the  same  vows  and  had  lost 
in  the  struggle  that  ensued— the  long  struggle. 

But  surely  they  must  not  have  been  faithful 
in  the  little  things,  to  fail  so  utterly  in  the 
greater  ones. 

One  could  not,  over  night,  reconcile  one's 
soul  to  so  tremendous  a  loss. 

Yes,  that  was  it :  there  were  degrees. 

It  was  a  ladder  of  descent. 


f 


111 


EMBERS 


ii 


It  could  not  hai)pen  all  at  once. 

Well,  he  would  see  to  it. 

He  woukl  \\^^i  allow  hiniselt  to  be  taken  by 
surprise. 

And.  beside^.  Tiod  would  help  him  to  perse- 
vere. 

He  would  pra\'.  if  tempted;  God  wotild  hear 
him. 

When  they  returned  to  the  convent  they  were 
scr\ed  a  collation  of  chocolate  and  cakes,  in  the 
students'  recreation  hall. 

On  the  morrow  he  went  into  class  and  took 
up  his  studies  where  he  had  left  off  two  years 
ago. 

He  and  Brother  1  laley  became  fast  friends, 
now  that  they  were  together  the  greater  part  of 
the  time. 

The  latter  had  turned  moody,  of  late. 

Sometimes  the  jolliest  of  the  black-robed 
flock,  he  would  become,  of  a  sudden,  morose, 
and  seemingly  indifferent  to  all  about  him. 

These  spells  usually  lasted  three  or  four 
days. 

Then  he  would  break  forth  again  in  jest  and 
laughter,  as  thougli  he  had  never  had  cause  to 
be  otlier  than  hap.py  in  his  calling. 


EMBERS 


233 


The  other  stiulents  used  to  see  him  taking 
loni,^  walks  in  the  q-arden  with  the  Father  Pre- 
fect. 

The  two  were  always  talking"  very  earnestly. 

And  from  the  manner  of  the  Prefect,  they 
did  not  seem  to  agree. 

leather  Moreau  would  .stop  suddenly  and, 
facing  the  student,  would  throw  up  his  hands 
in  a  wild  gesture  of  interrogation. 

Then  he  would  hring  down  one  hand  upon 
the  other  with  a  loud  clap,  as  much  as  to  say: 
"There  you  are;  the  prohlem  is  solved!" 

Sometimes,  the  i)riest  and  Brother  Haley 
would  be  seen  in  the  little  chai)el  of  "Our  Lady 
of  Sorrows,"  praying  together. 

The  Prefect  always  seemed  to  be  deadly  in 
earnest. 

Brother  Rodray  noted  that  the  older  students 
seemed  to  give  the  matter  little  thought,  though 
they  must  know  that  something  unusual  was 
going  on. 

He  spoke  to  a  student  about  it. 

"My  dear  Brother  Rodray,"  said  the  latter, 
for  only  answer,  "many  come  and  go.  We  must 
pray,  pray,  pray." 

Spring  came — Spring,  as  she  comes  only  in 


234 


EMBERS 


1 


the  T.itnhour.s^  valley:  glorious,  intoxicating  in 
her  perfumed  mantle  of  hloom. 

Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  the  "hii^arreau'* 
trees  filled  the  wide  ex[)ansc,  like  a  softlv-tinted 
sea  of  j^reen  and  coral. 

The  March  air  thrilled  the  senses,  like  mel- 
low wine. 

The  i^rapevines.  sprou  <x  their  velvet 
lea\es,  wept  pearl-like  tears  of  j(^v. 

It  was  jL^ood  to  live;  to  hear  the  hird  souths, 
the  j^lad  hahhle  of  the  hrooks;  to  feel  the  warm 
hreath  of  Sjjrinij;-  caress  tiie  hrow. 

Each  year  the  students,  under  the  direction 
of  Father  Morcau,  made  a  pil.L,^rimas'e  to  Mont 
Aigu.  a  famous  shrine,  some  eighteen  miles 
away.  j 

The  event  was  looked  forward  to  with  pleas- 
urahle  anticipation  hy  the  young  religious. 

It  was  a  day  free  from  routine  and  hright- 
ened  hy  scenes  that  were  picturesque  and 
quaint. 

Brother  Rodray  had  never  made  the  pilgrim- 
age. 

He  looked  forward  to  the  day  as  one  that 
would  redound  with  fruits  and  blessings. 

On  the  day  appointed,  the  students  arose  at 


EMBERS 


235 


t\v(j  in  ilie  ni(jniin<;  and  hoard  Mass  in  the 
chapel. 

Then  tlicv  wmt  to  the  rcfoctorv,  where  larL'-e 
howls  of  steam iiii;-  coffee  waited. 

Great  platters  were  jjiled  high  with  thin 
sandwiches  ni  hread  and  hiitter. 

It  \va^  a  little  after  three,  and  still  ([uite  dark, 
when  they  filed  out  of  the  little  door  in  the  ,<;ar- 
ilen  wall,  and  were  lost  in  the  shadows  without. 

The  entire  journey  was  made  a-foot. 

Litanies,  rosaries  and  monotonous,  intermin- 
ahle  pr.ayers  were  told  aloud  alonp;-  the  wav. 

They  were  (jutside  the  fortifications  of 
Diest,  when  the  sun.  in  gold  and  purple,  hurst 
forth  over  the  old  Memish  citv. 

The  pilgrims  came  to  an  old  church  and  went 
in,  to  kneel,  for  a  moment,  hcfore  its  lonelv 
tenant. 

And  now  they  passed  on  into  the  country 


agam. 


Along  the  way,  peasants  in  quaint  garb, 
straightenetl  u])  from  their  tasks  and  gazed  at 
the  passing  band. 

Stout,  red-faced  girls  and  women  toiled  in 
the  endless  fields  t)f  wheat  and  sugar  beets,  side 
by  side  with  brawnv,  stern-faced  men. 


236 


EMBERS 


i 


v> 


A  lout  who  reougiiized  llie  liabit  of  the  Sal- 
vatorists  dolTcd  his  cap  and  held  it  in  both 
liands,  until  a  jeer  from  one  of  his  companions 
l)rou.i;iit  him  to  his  senses. 

It  wa^  well  on  in  the  forenoon  when  they 
arrived,  tn-ed  and  footsore,  at  .Mont  .\i,t;;u. 

The  little  town  i^  piTclied  on  the  suininit  of 
a  knoh  of  mild  dccIi\U\-. 

It  is  typically  Meniish,  with  its  plaster  cot- 
tages nestlim;-  under  ro<)fs  of  dull  red  tiles  and 
thatch. 

The  men  movei'  about  in  i^reat  wooden 
"sabots  '  and  loose-fittinn'  ^^ni')cks  of  blue  or 
black  cotton,  tied  snui,d\  about  the  neck. 

The  women  wore  \ery  short  skirts  of  cheap 
textures,  the  same  wooden  shoes  as  the  men, 
and  short  kirtles  of  various  colors. 

Tii.!^ht-rittin_^-,  insufticieiU  bonnets  covered  the 
back  of  their  heads. 

The  hair  was  combed  strait^ht  and  done  in  a 
flat  knot  at  the  base  of  the  head. 

Four  roads  lead  into  Mont  Aij^n. 

The  church,  in  which  is  the  shrine,  has  stood 
for  centuries  in  the  center  of  the  plateau  which 
crowns  the  top  of  the  hill. 


MM  HERS 


2}^7 


The  pilc^riins  caiiK-  tn  a  house  somewhat 
l.iri^cT  than  the  otlicrs. 

Over  the  doorway  a  sign-boarrl.  with  a  pic- 
ture* of  a  fat  bar  maid  hearinu^  i^reat  bumpers 
of  beer,  swunjj;'  lazil\  in  the  bree/e  and  s(|ueaked 
on  its  rusty  hinp^cs. 

Underneath  the  picture  ran  the  impo>in;^ 
hue  "(  afe  I.eo])old   1 1." 

They  went  in. 

'I'hey  ate  cold  Iamb  and  r\e  l)read,  and  <h'ank 
Diable  beer. 

The  landlady  sat  at  the  head  of  the  lonp^ 
table  and  chatted  about  Mont  Ai.q-u  and  the 
miracles  which  were  bcin^  performed  at  the 
shrine. 

She  told  of  men  and  women  whom  she  her- 
self (this  was  no  hearsay)  had  seen  hobble  into 
the  little  edifice  on  crutches,  and  walk  out 
whole. 

She  had  heard  the  dumb  speak. 

She  had  seen  the  deaf  hear. 

Paralytics  had  risen,  unaided,  from  their 
stretchers,  and,  before  her  very  eyes,  brushed 
aside  their  guides  and.  walking  to  the  altar  of 
the  \'irgin.  shouted  the  "Te  Deum"  of  their 
joyful  gratitude. 


238 


EMBERS 


They  went  to  the  shrine. 

The  cluirch  was  well  filled  with  pil^qrims. 

There  were  men  and  \\on;en  of  all  classes 
and  deserii)tions. 

There  were  people  of  many  nations. 

Pa,  l)crs  elbowed  the  rich. 

Peasants  knelt  beside  nobles. 

All  were  e(|nal  here. 

The  stndents  made  their  way  slowly  to  the 
shrine,  on  the  right  of  the  church,  near  tlio 
main  aliar. 

Here  they  knelt  and  praved. 

All  about  them  arose  groans  of  pain  and 
loud-spoken  prayers  for  relief. 

Many  wept  and  tore  their  hair,  calling  upon 
the  \'irgin  to  hear  them. 

Some  knelt  upon  the  stone  flagging  of  the 
church,  their  arms  extended  above  their  heads, 
their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  image  of  Marv  hold- 
ing the  Babe  to  her  breast,  and  clothed  in  gar- 
ments of  white  and  gold. 

Others  knelt  with  their  heads  touching  the 
floor,  their  hands  under  their  knees,  the  backs 
of  the  hands  upon  the  stones. 

Many  lay  prostrate,  face  downward,  before 
the  shrine. 

Numbers  licked  the  cold,  sandv  flags  with 


EMBERS 


239 


their  tongues,  tracinc^  little  crosses  with  their 
saliva  upon  the  stone  floor. 

There  were  men,  women  and  children  on 
crutches. 

The  blind,  the  deaf,  the  mute  were  there. 

A  man,  with  his  nose  eaten  off  to  the  bone, 
approached  the  shrine  and  knelt  by  the  side  of 
Brother  Rodray. 

'Hie  stench  from  his  body  was  sickening. 

A  voung  girl  came  forward  with  a  babe  at 
her  breast. 

The  little  one  turned  its  face  to  Maurice. 

It  w^as  a  mass  of  bleeding  sores. 

An  old  woman  was  praying  aloud  for  the  re- 
turn of  her  son,  who  had  been  sent  to  the  Congo 
as  a  "chasseur." 

Black-robed  abbes  wormed  their  way  silent- 
ly, noiselessly,  throng.,  the  crowded  aisles. 

Xuns  prayed. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  commotion  in  the  rear 
of  the  church. 

"]\Iake  way!"  the  sexton  was  saying,  in  a 
low  voice;  and  the  crowd  parted. 

Two  men,  bearing  a  stretcher,  came  for- 
ward, towards  the  shrine. 

A  young  man.  in  the  last  stages  of  tubercu- 


240 


EMBERS 


M 


\M 


losis,  looked  lip  from  a  while  pillov  with 
vacant,  p^lassy  eyes. 

The  hollow  cheeks,  the  wasted,  sunken  face, 
the  lonci',  wavy  hair  fallin^^  in  curls  ahout  his 
forehead,  ears  and  neck,  i^ave  liim  the  appear- 
ance of  a  saint  of  the  early  church. 

He  paid  little  heed  Id  what  was  i^oini^  on 
ahout  him,  except  to  look  intently  at  Brother 
Haley,  who  was  kneeliuL^  near  him. 

When  they  raised  the  stretcher  to  bear  him 
away,  his  face  expressed  relief. 

Hundreds  of  tapers  illumined  the  shrine. 

One  great  candle,  as  large  as  a  soup  bowl 
and  as  high  as  an  average  man,  burned  in 
front  of  the  statue  of  Xotre  Dame  de  Aiont 
Aigu. 

A  great  pyramid  of  crutches,  sticks,  trusses 
and  many  other  tokens  of  miraculous  cures, 
stood  by  the  side  of  the  shrine. 

Father  Moreau  gave  the  signal  to  go. 

'^he  students  rose  to  their  feet. 

A  sea  of  pain-racked,  crippled  wretches 
faced  the  shrine. 

A  great  family  of  diseased  and  cankerous 
humans,  weeping  over  their  sorrows  and  their 
sores  and  begging  surcease  of  pain. 


EMBERS 


241 


They  returned  to  the  inn. 

The  landlady  brought  them  cheese,  "pain 
noir"  and  beer. 

They  ate  and  drank  hastily,  standing". 

And  now  they  took  leave  of  the  hostess,  and 
swung  off  in  a  long,  black  line,  down  the  tree- 
arched  highway  that  led  to  Saint  Trond. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO. 


The  impressions  of  the  pilgrimajje  remained 
a  long-  while  on  Brother  Rodray's  inind. 

The  ills  of  the  flesh,  the  disgusting  state  of 
living,  human  bodies,  and  the  faith  of  these 
charnal  spectres,  burning  in  their  souls,  like 
the  lone  flame  in  the  sanctuary,  and  lighting 
their  way  with  a  flickering  ray  of  hope — all 
this  lay  heavily  upon  him  for  many  days. 

But,  as  time  wore,  the  anguish  he  had  ex- 
perienced at  sight  of  all  this  misery  and  pain 
gave  way  to  a  more  passive  contemplation  of 
the  eternal  wisdom  of  Providence ;  and,  finally, 
he  thought  no  more  upon  it. 

Spring  passed  into  Summer;  and  the  earth 
brought  forth  her  harvest  of  fruits. 

The  green  fields  turned  to  gold  in  the  August 
sun;  and  the  trees  and  vines  strained  under 
their  ripening  burthens. 

In  these  Summer  days,  the  students  went 

l242] 


EMBERS 


243 


frequently  for  walks  in  the  surrounding^ 
country. 

Over  the  estates  of  "seigneurs,"  over  paths 
that  wound  through  fields  of  waving  wheat, 
over  highways  that  led  to  far-away  lands,  the 
Salvatorists  went  their  way,  telling  their 
beads,  or  rapt  in  meditation. 

Sometimes  they  conversed  among  them- 
selves. 

But  for  the  most  part  their  speech  was 
prayer. 

One  day,  when  they  went  into  the  country, 
Brother  Haley  was  not  with  them. 

Brother  Rodray  was  the  first  to  note  his 
absence.  A  feeling  of  loneliness  came  into  his 
heart;  and  he  felt  that  something  had  gone 
wrong  with  his  friend. 

They  had  left  the  city  a  sliort  distance  behind 
them,  when  Brother  Rodray  decided  to  return 
at  once  to  the  convent  to  find  Haley. 

He  approached  Father  Moreau,  who  was  in 
charge  of  the  band: 

"1  feel  quite  di/^7.y,"  he  lied.  "May  I  go 
back?" 

"Yes,  dear  Brother,"  the  Prefect  replied, 
"and,  walk  slowly,  lest  you  add  to  your  weak- 
ness." 


244 


EMBERS 


II 


It  was  ilie  first  deliberate  falsehood  he  could 
recall  in  'lis  life. 

It  confii>e(l  him  to  think  of  it. 

He  tell  the  hot  hloud  mounting  to  his  cheeks 
from  -hame. 

He  ihoughl  of  lurnin--  hack  and  overtaking 
the  students. 

He  could  say  that  he  felt  better. 

He  gazed  after  them. 

Thev  were  moving  slowiy  up  the  slope  of  a 
distant  hill,  like  small  black  blotches  on  the 
dun  and  green. 

But.  the  wrong  was  done. 

He  might  not  mend  it  now. 

And,  perhai)s.  Haley  needed  him. 

He  faced  about. 

The  spires  of  the  city  shot  up  like  fkunes  in 
the  sunlight. 

He  hurried  on. 

The  students'  (piarters  were  deserted. 

Bui  he  met  Haley  coming  out  of  the  chapel. 

He  was  dressed  in  a  black  suit,  and  carried  a 
satchel. 

Haley  was  the  first  to  speak: 

*T  am  leaving  the  Order,"  he  said,  "going- 
back  to  begin  all  o\xr.    1  was  never  cut  out  for 


EMBERS 


245 


this  life.  Oh.  Rodray,  Rodray,  the  years  I've 
thrown   away — seven  long-,   merciless   years!" 

"Why  did  y(ni  not  tell  me,  the  day  I  came? 
^'ou  rememher — I  asked  you." 

"Ah.  that  would  have  heen  unwise.  Besides, 
}ou  seem  very  happy,  Rodray." 

"Ves,  but  this  upsets  me  terribly.  I'm  so 
sorry  to  lose  you.  We  were  like  brothers  in 
the  flesh." 

Ai^ain  their  hands  met,  as  on  the  day  when 
iheir  friendship  was  pledged. 

But,  now^  their  eyes  filled;  and  their  clasped 
hands  shook  as  with  the  ague. 

Their  lips  twitched. 

They  dared  no  longer  trust  their  voices. 

A  lay  brother  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  long 
corridor  and  beckoned  Haley. 

The  clasped  hands  gripi)ed  each  other  for  a 
moment,  tightly — very  tightly,  as  in  a  spasm  of 
great  pain. 

The  men  nodded  in  silence;  and  tried  to 
smile. 

Then  Haley  tore  away  and  rushed  down  the 
long  corridor,  after  the  lay  brother  who  had 
beckoned  him. 

Brother  Rodray  slept  but  little  that  night. 


246 


EMBERS 


Thoughts  whirled  in  upon  his  waking  brain 
in  wild  confusion. 

Once  he  started  up  from  a  fitful  doze,  think- 
ing that  Elaine  was  standing  by  his  bedside. 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  waved  it  gently  to 
make  sure  it  was  but  a  dream. 

Day  was  breaking  when  he  fell  asleep  again. 

An  hour  later  the  convent  bell  called  him  to 
the  duties  of  the  day. 

He  could  not  pray  or  study  for  thinking  of 
Haley.  But,  more  especially,  what  seemed  to 
prey  upon  his  mind  was  Haley's  renunciation 
of  his  vows  and  going  forth  into  the  world 
again — his  surrender  to  the  flesh,  as  he 
deemed  it. 

He  did  not  think  ill  of  Haley — he  loved  him 
too  well  for  that. 

But  a  great  wave  of  pity  came  into  his  heart 
for  the  fallen  one. 

Indeed,  he  wept,  many  times,  when  alone, 
for  him. 

And  now  a  great  aridity  of  soul  stole  over 
him;  and  he  lost  all  heart  for  prayer. 

He  performed  the  same  exercises  as  of  oM, 
said  the  same  prayers,  invoked  the  same  saints 
and  knelt  long  before  the  tabernacle,  calling 


EMBERS 


247 


upon  the  Christ  to  hear  him  and  make  him  glad 
with  heavenly  consolation. 

But  his  orisons  went  unheedi  d. 

And  his  soul  was  a  great  void. 

A  change  came  over  him. 

lie  moped;  and  lost  ground  in  his  studies. 

He  turned  taciturn  and  glum. 

Time  passed.     Winter  came  again. 

And  again  Spring. 

And  his  heart  was  sick. 

Then,  one  day,  Father  Moreau  handed  him  a 
letter. 

It  was  from  his  mother. 

He  took  it  to  his  room  to  read  it. 

It  was  the  usual  rigmarole  of  family  disturb- 
ances which  he  had  known  from  childhood. 
But,  towards  the  end,  he  read: 

"Elaine  Le  Blanc's  little  girl  is  very  ill.  Poor 
little  thing!  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  for 
her  to  die,  not  having  a  father." 

Elaine  the  mother  of  a  child ! 

No  father ! 

Could  it  be  possible  the  child  was  his  own? 

He  had  never  thought  of  that. 

And  none  of  his  people  had  mentioned  it 
before,  in  the  letters  from  home. 


24S 


EMI'.ERS 


(li»(l.  if  it  wore  so — what  tlien? 

lie  sat  down  and  penned  a  letter  to  Mrs. 
Rodray.  recinestini;  lier,  w  illiout  effort  at  diplo- 
macy, to  tell  him  all  she  knew  conccrnin.c^ 
hdaine's  child,  lie  would  he  grateful  for  an 
early  answer. 

A  month  ])as.se(l  hefore  the  letter  came. 

Mrs.  Rodray  went  at  leni^lh  into  the  matter 
of  IClaine's  motherhood. 

She  thou.^ht  Maurice  knew  all  ahoiit  it. 

The  child,  a  daughter,  was  horn  some  seven 
or  eii;ht  months  after  Maurice's  departure 
from  Lasalle. 

It  was  not  known  in  the  villaii^c  who  was  the 
father  of  the  unfortunate  child. 

The  little  L,drl  was  now  out  of  (kuisj^er. 

She  was  very  l)ri.<;ht  and  ])retty. 

The  peoi)le  in  Lasalle  did  not  look  down 
upon  l^laine  for  her  transc^ression. 

Thev  did  not  min,c:le  with  her,  of  course. 

But  there  was  no  feelini;  at^ainst  her. 

Baptiste  had  taken  it  very  hard  and  his  mind 
had  given  way  under  the  strain. 

He  was  now  in  the  asylum,  at  Long  Point. 

A  cousin  of  Elaine's  was  doing  the  work 
about  the  Le  Blanc  farm. 


.  )■■ 


EMP.KRS 


249 


This  was  about  all  she  knew  of  the  affair. 

I'rothcr  Rodray  looked  iij)  from  the  letter 
at  the  white  wall  i^\  the  room. 

Then,  he  was  the  father  of  l^laine's  child. 

It  was  his  child,  in  fact,  as  much  as  hers. 

And  all  these  years  had  passed  without  his 
knowiuL^'! 

I  lis  child  ;  his  daui^^hter  ! 

What  was  he  to  do?  N'e^.  even  now  that  he 
did  know,  what  was  there  that  he  could  do? 
Was  it  possible  to  ri^ht  the  wrong? 

1  f  so,  how  ? 

There  was  a  taj)  on  the  door. 

"Ah,  I'rother  Rodray.  there's  someone  to  see 
you  in  the  guests'  rjuarters."  It  was  Father 
Moreau  who  was  speaking.  "It  is  a  lady — a 
cousin  of  vours,  from  Canada.  Put  on  your 
good  soutane  and  go  down." 

"Mv  cousin!"  exclaimed  Brother  Rodray; 
for  he  had  no  cousin. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear  brother.  But,  make 
haste;  you  should  not  keep  the  lady  waiting! 
And  you  must  entertain  her  well;  I  shall  send 
wine  to  the  jiarlor." 

The  good  man  came  (^ver  to  his  charge,  and 
])Ut  his  arm  around  his  shoulder. 


250 


EMIiKRS 


"i  am  i^lad  she  has  conic,"  he  said.  "It  will 
f^ivc  von  cheer,  j)crhaps.  ^'ou  have  heen  very 
(lownhcartcd.  of  late." 

Maurice  said  no  more ;  hut  chanj^^ed  cassocks, 
and  went  to  the  i^uests  (juarters,  in  a  ditant 
winj^  of  the  jji'reat  Iniildin.ij:. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  parlor. 

The  room  was  empty. 

The  door  of  the  second  was  open.  There 
was  no  one  there. 

He  came  to  the  private  parlor,  which  was 
reserved  for  ahhots  and  hishops  and  guests 
of  high  position  in  the  world. 

His  heart  thumped  as  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  knoh. 

The  door  ope.ied : 

On  the  red  plush  sofa,  in  a  far  corner  of  the 
room,  a  woman  was  smiling. 

It  was  Waldette  Bergere. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  and  came  forward, 
extending  her  hand. 

She  had  lost  none  of  her  beauty. 

Brother  Rodray  grasped  the  proffered  hand. 

It  was  warm  and  very  soft,  like  velvet. 

She  was  smiling  into  his  eyes. 


EMRERS 


251 


Her  red  lips  were  parted,  showing  llie  pearl- 
like teeth. 

She  did  not  withdraw  her  hand. 

Maurice  felt  anew  the  old  tinj^ling  in  his 
veins. 


.iiJ 


CMAPTI'.R  'rW'KXTV-THREE 


lM)()tstcj)s  sounded  on  llic  stone  Ha,i^ging-  in 
the  hall. 

X'aldctte  drew  lu  rself  free:  "The  brother 
who  ope. led  the  door,"  she  whispered,  ;ked 
nie  if  I  as  a  relative  of  yours.  I  said  yes,  that 
I  was  your  cousin,  Mademoiselle  Bergere,  from 
Montreal." 

Brother  Rodray  nodded  approval. 
The  door  ,)])ene(l  and  a  lay  brother  entered 
the  room,  be  iring  a  tray  of  meat. 

He  set  down  the  tray  audi  ])roceedcd  to  lay 
the  table. 

There  were  "tartines"  and  salad  and  a  large 
bowl  of  cherries. 

A  quart  bottle  of  wine  took  up  its  place  in 
the  ccntei  of  the  tabl''. 

The  lay  i)rother,  who  was  I-deniish  and  knew 
no  French,  smiled  beamingly  upon  the  pair; 
and,  as  he  -    .s  about  to  leave,  made  a  grand 

[252] 


EMBERS 


253 


gesture  of  invitation  towards  the  table,  bowing 
low. 

And  now  they  were  alone  again. 

They  were  sealed  at  table;  and  Brother  Rod- 
ray  was  ])oiiring  the  dark  Bordeaux. 

The  first  heal  of  passion  had  cooled;  and  al- 
ready Maurice  felt  a  keen  pang  of  conscience 
at  thought  of  his  llagrant  violation  of  the  most 
sacred  of  his  vows. 

He  wa'^  visibly  embarrassed  in  the  presence 
of  Xaldetic  and  dared  not  raise  his  eyes  to  hers. 

Then  Elaine  and  her  child — his  child,  came 
to  his  mind :  Elaine  the  vestal,  who  had  fallen 
through  him ;  and  wlio  had  borne  the  burden 
of  her  shame,  all  these  years,  not  murnun-ing, 
but  in  the  silence  of  great  love. 

Why  was  he  here,  dawdling  with  this 
creature  ? 

Jf  there  must  be  a  woman  in  his  life,  it  was 
not  this  one,  but  the  other,  who  had  a  claim 
u])on  hir.i, 

1:1  is  pr  ie  suffered  greatly  from  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  fall  from  grace. 

lie  knew  he  could  no  longer  trust  his  heart 
— that,  indeed,  he  was  not,  as  he  had  thought 
these  years,  master  of  himself. 


I 


254 


EMBERS 


iii 


A  woman,  of  whom  he  knew  but  little,  had 
made  of  him  her  toy  and  a  fool. 

These  thoughts  whirled  through  his  brain, 
unwelcome  and  unbidden. 

If  he  fell  so  «\isily  now,  thought  he,  in  the 
sacred  precincts  of  the  cloister,  what  must  be 
his  lot  later  on  when  souls  were  unveiled  to  him 
in  the  confessional;  and  the  sins  of  those  souls 
revealed  to  him  for  forgiveness. 

With  incredible  clearness  and  rapidity  he 
viewed  his  act  and  its  consequences. 

Jle  had  been  a  traitor. 

He  had  in  spirit  broken  the  great  vow. 

He  had  touched  a  woman  an  ^  desired  her, 
because  she  was  good  to  look  upon. 

And  then  again  Elaine  and  the  child — his 
child,  passed  before  him. 

He  had  violated  his  trust. 

He  had  outraged  heaven. 

His  sin  was  a  scarlet  sin,  that  would  rise  up 
against  him. 

What  right  did  he  have  to  preach  the  Word, 
weakling  that  he  was  ? 

Ah,   he  was  unworthy — more   so   than  the 
flagging  at  his  feet. 
Valdette  had  removed  her  hat  and  coat. 


EMBERS 


255 


She  was  helpin^r  herself  to  the  salad  and  tar- 
tines  and  gave  no  thought  to  the  silence  of  her 
host. 

The  door  opened  and  Father  Moreau  entered 
the  room,  smilinj^. 

The  priest  drew  a  chair  to  the  table  and 
asked  many  questions  of  Valdette  as  to  her 
trip,  and  her  impressions  of  the  various  coun- 
tries through  wh'ch  she  had  passed. 

He  incjuired  after  the  health  of  Brother  Rod- 
ray's  people. 

Valdette  replied  that  they  were  all  well  when 
she  left  Canada;  but  that,  of  course,  as  she 
lived  in  Montreal,  she  would  not  know  of  any 
slight  or  very  recent  indisposition. 

"But,"  persisted  the  Prefect,  evidently  think- 
ing it  a  good  joke,  "wheii  you  decided  to  come 
all  the  way  from  Canada,  intending  to  visit 
your  cousin,  Brother  Rodray,  did  you  not  go 
to  Lasalle,  to  see  his  people,  so  that  you  might 
bring  a  message  from  ihem  to  him?  Ah,"  he 
laughed,  '"you  Canadians !  You  "hink  no  more 
of  crossing  the  ocean  than  we  do  of  going  to 
Brussels." 

Brother  Rodray  v»as  visibly  nervous. 

Valdette  colored  a  triHe. 


256 


EMBERS 


But  the  priest  laid  their  eniharrassment  to 
his  remark;  for  he  prided  himself  much  upon 
his  wit. 

So  he  laug-hed  on,  good-naturedly,  and  re- 
filled the  glasses. 

And  X'aldette  and  Maurice  laughed,  too. 

Father  Moreau  remained  w  ith  the  pair  a  few 
moments  longer. 

When  he  rose  to  leave,  he  said  to  Maurice: 

"Brother  Rodray,  you  nuist  take  Mademoi- 
selle to  the  churches  of  the  city  and  show  her 
the  surrounding  country.  It  is  very  heautiul 
now.  in  Ma\ ." 

And.  turning  to  Waldette.  he  added: 

"We  Belgians  are  proud  of  our  dear  Flan- 
ders, Mademoiselle  Bergere.  An  revoir.  And 
do  not  hurry  away  from  Saint  'frond. " 

When  they  were  alone  again,  Maurice  found 
himself  in  hetler  mood. 

The  wine  had  mellowed  him;  and  he  felt  but 
the  faintest  ])ricking  of  remorse. 

It  came  in  upon  him  like  a  siia<low  dimming 
the  sunlight ;  and  even  imparled  a  certain  flavor 
that  was  not  altogether  distasteful. 

He  chatted  pleasantly;  but  ate  little. 

\'aklette  was  very  hungry. 


EMBERS 


257 


The  chicory  salad  pleased  her  immensely. 

And  the  wine  she  declared  to  be  famous. 

When  she  raised  the  cherries  over  her  red 
mouth  and  bit  them  off  their  stems,  Brother 
Rodray  quivered  with  desire,  at  the  very  splen- 
dour of  her  beauty. 

The  lay  brother  brought  cheese  and  coffee; 
smiled  again  as  before,  and  bowed  himself  out. 

And  now  they  rose  from  table ;  and  went  into 
the  garden  of  the  guests. 

Here  they  walked  for  a  while,  in  the  shade 
of  trees  laden  with  cherries. 
I  Flowers  were  everywhere,   their  perfumes 

•'  mingling  wildly,  like  voices. 

For  a  while  they  were  silent. 

Presently  Valdette  turned  to  Maurice  and 
said  : 

"You  did  not  think  I  would  come?" 

"When  you  failed  to  appear  that  first  year,  I 
hardly  thought  you  would,  and  gave  you  up." 

"And  you  are  glad  to  see  me?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  very  glad !" 

"\ou  have  changed,  Alaurice:  you  arc  taller, 
and,  I  really  believe,  more  handsome." 

"And  you,  Valdette,  have  not  changed:  you 
are  beautiful — as  ever." 


258 


EM  HERS 


Slic  smiled  and,  ^toopini;-  down,  plucked  a 
bkx)d-rcd  tulip  which  slie  j)inncd  o\er  her 
breast. 

■"Are  \()u  .q'niiic,^  to  sliow  inc  over  the  citv?" 
she  asked. 

"^e^;  hut  it  is  a  ])ri\ileL;e  1  ha\'e  never 
known  to  he  granted  hetOrc.'" 

"Ah.  I  shall  he  so  L;iad  to  haxe  \ou !  Those 
Flenii>h  l>ore  one  so  with  their  hroken  h'rench." 

Father  .Moreau  appeared  in  the  doorway: 

"Xow,  then  lU}-  children."'  he  cried,  ■■\<ni  had 
l>etter  he  starting,  if  you  wish  to  visit  all  the 
churches  this  afternoon.  Urother  Rodrav,  vou 
can  take  Madenioiselle  into  the  countr\'  tomor- 
row. Brother  Pierre  is  awaiting  you  at  the 
main  entrance.  He  is  going  along  with  you, 
as  he  knows  the  city  and  under'^tands  F"lemish." 

At  the  door,  Brother  Pierre,  who  had  served 
the  luncheon,  joined  them. 

His  honest  face  heamed  contentment  and  he 
-eem.ed  well  pleased  with  his  task. 

They  walked,  o\-er  the  cohhled  streets,  from 
church  to  church:  and  reached  the  convent  at 
nightfall,  tired  and  footsore. 

Tlie  evening  meal  was  served  in  the  same 
room,  hv  Brother  Pierre. 


EMBERS 


259 


Shortly  after  sii])|)cr,  Xaldottc  ro-'>  to  leave. 

She  felt  <|tiite  fati.^ued  from  the  loni;  walk 
o\er  the  city. 

"How  lon<^  ,  re  yoii  lvouij;-  \>>  he  in  Saint 
Trond?"  Maurice  etKjtiired. 

"Just  a  short  while,  my  dear."  she  replied, 
cominir  ,,ver  t(;  him.  "W  ill  \nu  take  me  to  the 
country  tomorrow  ?" 

He  tremhied  sh-lilly  as  he  .^a^ed  at  her;  and 
his  Hps  moved  in  spite  of  him: 

"Yes."  I^  '  said,  "tomorrow." 


Ji 


CHAPTER  TWT.XTY-FOUR. 


Brotlicr  Pierre  accompanied  them  into  the 
country. 

He  was  an  odd  sii^ht,  perched  upon  the  box 
of  the  shaky  old  carriage,  with  his  faded  tri- 
corn  hat  pulled  down  over  his  ears,  and  his 
greenish-black  soutane,  mottled  with  grease 
spots,  and  bursting  open  over  his  belly. 

He  scolded  the  old  convent  horse,  who  threw 
back  his  ears  in  resentment  and  swished  his 
tail  petulantly  by  way  of  retort. 

"Pegase"  had  spent  the  better  part  of  his 
life  in  the  service  of  the  convent;  and  permitted 
no  one,  not  even  Brother  Pierre,  to  whom  he 
stood  indebted  for  many  an  extra  measure  of 
oats,  to  dictate  his  course  of  conduct. 

Particularly  did  he  object  to  being  prescribed 
a  faster  gait  than  suited  his  whim. 

The  vehicle  was  a  coupe  of  a  style  almost  for- 
gotten. The  paint  was  ba-Hy  checkered,  and, 
in  patches,  rubbed  off  entirely,  leaving  bare  the 

[260J 


EMBERS 


261 


woodwork  which  was  cracked  in  places,  and 
warped. 

But  Valdette  was  deh.crhted  with  the  scenery 
and  j^ave  httle  thous^ht  to  the  wretched  vehicle. 

Brother  Rodra}-  sat  beside  her,  torn  by  con- 
flicting emotions. 

They  drove  in  a  widening  circuit  around  the 
city. 

The  broad  highway's  were  coxcred  with  a 
thick,  high  arch  of  oaks  and  elms. 

A  delightful  breeze  cooled  the  ardor  of  the 
sun,  fanning  their  faces. 

Interminable  fields  of  wheat  and  sugar  beets 
stretched  over  the  wide  expanse  like  soft  car- 
pets of  green  upon  the  yellow  soil. 

Here  and  there,  along  the  way,  a  hare,  sur- 
prised upon  the  roadway,  pricked  up  its  ears, 
and  bounded  off. 

Men  and  women,  toiling  in  the  fields,  stared 
at  the  passing  carriage,  and  bent  down  again 
over  their  tasks. 

They  came  to  a  fork  in  the  road  and  Brother 
Pierre  turned  ofiF  on  the  highway  that  passed 
Saint  Trudon. 

They  visited  the  church. 


262 


I'Mi;i-:ks 


■■^()U  (Idii'i  kiK.w  lU'l^iiiiii."'  said  Maurice, 
"unk'ss  ynii  >ih'  it^  i  liurclics." 

'I'lie  al)l)0  came  Min  of  iln-  pai  i. si i  house,  and 
welcomed  iIk-  \  isjtors. 

lie  was  an  old  man.  thin  an<l  wliitc  liaired. 

I  Ic  in\  ilc-d  dicni  inio  tlu-  housc  and  laid  ni"al 
and  wine  before  tliem. 

lie  was  \iTy  lolly;  and  walked  widi  tlieni 
down  the  Ioul;'  .^raxcl  pathwaN'.  lo  il,.  ca-Tiai^e, 
to  SCO  them  otT. 

They  left  the  little  red-roofed  to-- n  hehind 
them  and  journevi'd  into  the  heart  <<f  th  •  hct 
country,  where  the  L^reen  lo(.ked  hke  a  shore- 
less sea.  rollini^-  .aw.ay  to  the  \  er-e. 

'I  hey  had  ii-a\elk(l,  ])erli;i])s.  an  hour,  when 
the  lowers  ot  ,i  j^reat  chateau  loomed  against 
the  spotless  hack^round  of  the  sk\-. 

A  wiu(hn,L;-  drixeuay  came  down  t"  the  road 
from  the  castle. 

A  wide  park  lay  between  the  chateau  and  the 
hii^-hway. 

I'^rother  Tierre  ah^hted  aiuk  t^oiuL,^  over  to 
tlic  lodL,^e,  swunj^-  open  the  ,<;.ate.  Then  !  led 
"Peg-ase"  into  the  grounds  and.  after  closing 
the  gate,  mouiUed  ilir  hox  and  drove  on  *o- 
wards  the  chateau. 


il 


E.\fi:KRS 


263 


■■  I  li'^  -■sCilc."  cxplamcd  I'.r,  iIut  Rclr.iv  t., 
\  aldcitc.  ••iK"I..iiMs  to  ;i,i  l-n-lisli  iK.hlcm.m 
nliM  s|,  ,1,1,  ,,„.,,  ,,,   i,j,  ,j,„^,  j,,   ^.„„i,^.,.„   ,,-,,_ 

ropL-.    \\  (•  ;,rc'  -uin  ilu-  frcoloui  m|"  \hv  -touikIs 
at  nil  tiiiK's." 

Arrivin-  urur  \\w  v:i.\U  .  the  li-.i-si-  ua>  tctli- 
t-ix'(l;  and  iIk"  three  waikal  up  tlu-  drivcwnv  to 
the  inorit. 

Sw.-in.  tl.Mifd  pc;uH-i"nlly  111  \hc  ^^■^\^.y  ain..n,<,r 
i^w-Al  cliivtrrs  ..r  w,  UT  lilies. 

TliiTo  wa-  IK.  ^i-n  ..t  life  ah-uit  tl  ,-  rli,iU-;iu; 
I'Ut  the  -n.und.s  vvv  in  [h  -feet  o  uidition  .  and 
llif  pancrres  in  1)1()(  m. 

Two  sh.nc  dnio-,,ns  -uardid  the  Ti-mi  i  en- 
trance. Siatiies  .f  the  kin-s  and  (jtieens  .,f 
Kno-land  oeenpie.i  n;ehes  in  the  walls  ot  the 
towerini^-  strnctnre. 

They  cnssed  the  stone  l)nd--e  over  the  moat 
and  passed  on  into  the  preserve,  a  short  dis- 
tance hack  of  the  chateau. 

Brother  Pierre,  -vho  was  in  the  advance,  led 
them  to  the  1  ,nk  of  the  stream  that  lan 
throui^di  i,>e    enter  of  the  wood. 

The  hn^lier  ik.w  husied  himself  empiyino- 
the  content,  of  a  hasket  which  he  had  taken 
Injni  under  the  hox  of  the  carriage. 


'■ll 


i 


264 


EMRERS 


B 


He  set  about  to  find  an  open  space  upon 
which  to  lay  the  meat. 

Valdctte  and  Maurice  seated  themselves 
upon  the  bank. 

Presently  the  voice  of  the  lay  brother  called 
out: 

Brooder  Rodray !  ici.  ici !" 

He  stood  at  the  far  end  f)f  a  loni,^  ,i,dade. 
beckoning,  and  pointing  to  the  ground  at  his 
feet. 

"He  has  found  a  place,"  said  Maurice;  and 
they  followed  the  aisle  to  where  the  meat  lay 
upon  the  ground. 

There  was  a  quart  of  wine;  and  after  this, 
another. 

Brother  Pierre  partook  of  the  meal  with  the 
others;  and  when  it  was  over,  and  the  wine 
was  drank,  the  good  man  never  moved  from 
his  seat  upon  the  grass ;  but  leaned  trustingly 
against  the  tree  at  his  back,  and  snored  loudly. 

Valdette  and  Brother  Rodray  went  back  to 
the  edge  of  the  stream. 

They  were  in  mellov,  mood,  and  one  to  en- 
courage confidences. 

"Tne  river,"  said  Maurice,  presently,  gazing 
at  the  water:  "how  like  the  human  hfe." 


EMBERS 


265 


"Yes,"  the  woman  rejoined;  "hut  witli  this 
exception,  that  the  river  is  much  (he  purer  of 
the  two." 

"That  is  so,  Valdette.  Men  make  vows  and 
— forn^et  them,  at  sight  of  the  first  pretty 
woman." 

"Maurice,  I  had  no  such  thou,i,dU  in  mind,  1 
assure  you.  [  was  only  rambhng.  Do  you 
beheve  me?" 

"Of  course  T  do.   But,  Oli !" 

He  shuddered. 

"You  are  unhappy,  Maurice?" 

"Yes,  very  unhappy." 

"Poor  boy!  Tell  me  about  it.  Perhaps 
something  can  be  done— who  knows?" 

She  took  his  hand  in  hers  and  repeated  in 
the  softest  voice: 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

And  Maurice  yielded  to  her  insistence ;  and 
unfolded  to  her  the  story  of  his  life  and  the 
story  of  Elaine. 

She  listened  attentively  to  all  he  said. 

When  he  had  done,  she  remained  silent  for  a 
long  time,  her  eyes  gazing  fixedly  upon  the 
water. 

He  took  her  silence  as  a  condemnation  of 
nim  and  his  acts. 


266 


EAir.LRS 


II. 


VJ 


Ik-  rc.nrcttcd  Iiaviii^;-  told  Ikt. 

At  lent^-ili.  slic  put  lonh  lier  hand  to  him 
a.^ain:  and  a-  she  looked  into  his  eves  th.ere 
were  tears  in  Iiei-  own. 

"1  piiy  yon."  she  he.qan,  "t'or  I  know  what 
yon  nuisi  he  suffering-."" 

■"Bnt.""  said  Ahmrice,  "it  is  torlnre  to  think 
'>t  it.  It  will  drive  me  mad.  Last  ni-'ht  I  conld 
iK'l  sleej).  I  saw  the  '-hild  helore  me— hdaine 
holdino-  the  ehild  in  lier  arms,  deiyin-  the  world 
in  her  silence.     .\nd  (hen.  my  v.-ws— for  life!" 

"Let  me  tell  yon  the  stor}'  of  another  life," 
said  \'aldette;  "a  woman's  life." 


It' 


CHAPTKR  TWKXTV-FIVE. 


"It's  an  old  sS)ry  and  a  sordid  one.  But  I 
want  yon  to  lirai  it,  ne\ertIicloss.  for  the  appli- 
cation it  may  liave  on  your  life. 

"1  was  horn  of  humhle  parents.  My  father 
was  a  reporter  on  one  of  the  Montreal'  dailies. 
Me  was  underpaid  for  his  services,  and.  many 
times,  saw  his  family  in  want  for  the  hare 
necessities  of  life. 

"T  can  recall,  in  |)articular.  one  winter  when 
we  took  turn  ahout  to  play  in  the  yard,  there 
not  hein.c:  -^Ik^cs  for  the  lot  of  us. 

•'M\  n:other  was  a  o-ood,  kind  soul,  who  had 
left  a  home  of  luxury  a.^-ainst  ihc  will  of  her 
people,  to  marry  my  father. 

"Throu-J^h  all  the  trials  of  poverty  and  semi- 
starvation  which  attended  the  raising-  of  a  large 
family,  her  ])ride  was  too  strong  to  permit  her 
to  appeal  for  help  to  any  of  her  relatives. 

"But  the  struggle  for  existence  wore  her 
down  hy  degrees  until  linally  she  took  sick  with 

[267] 


268 


EMBERS 


■'  I 
■1  i 


typhoid  fever  and  died.  Her  death  was  due 
more  to  the  lack  o^  proper  care  and  nourish- 
ment than  to  the  malady  itself. 

"And  now,  hroken  in  spirit  and  daunted  by 
the  spectre  of  poverty  that  seemed  to  grow 
more  relentless  as  time  went  on,  my  father  took 
to  drinking. 

"I  was  the  eldest  child;  and  the  care  of  the 
younger  ones  devolved  upon  me. 

"The  loss  of  my  poor  mother,  whom  I  loved 
dearly,  the  life  of  privation  which  had  been 
forced  upon  me  from  the  cradle,  the  sudden 
falling  off  of  my  father  and  the  new  responsi- 
bility for  the  little  brood  of  orphans,  made  of 
me  a  woman  before  my  time. 

"I  saw  little  for  me  in  life. 

"Two  years  went  by. 

"My  father  was  now  a  hopeless  drunkard. 

"The  paper  which  had  taken  the  best  of  his 
liie  for  a  beggarly  pittance  now  discharged 
him. 

"For  a  time  he  sought  employment  from  the 
other  newspapers. 

"But  none  would  have  him. 

"He  had  no  money;  but  he  still  managed  to 
get  his  drink  in  the  saloons  where  lie  was 
known. 


EMBERS 


269 


"1 


Tn  the  course  of  time,  however,  thev  refused 
hini  any  more  Hqiior.  And  now  those  leeches 
who  had  m  the  past  accepted  the  wages  which 
they  knew  were  due  to  the  keep  of  his  little 
ones,  turned  him  out  like  a  dog  and  hade  him 
not  return. 

"A  little  French  bakery  in  the  neighborhood 
Iiad  given  us  credit,  else  we  must  have  starved 
to  death. 

"One  day  my  father  kissed  us  all  before  leav- 
ing home. 

'"That  night  a  police  officer  came  to  the 
house. 

"He  turned  quite  pale,  and  his  eyes  glistened 
when  he  saw  the  utter  wretchedness  of  the 
household. 

"We  were  eating  supper. 

'There  was  bread  on  the  table;  nothing  else. 
J  he  big  man  drew  me  to  one  side  and  said  • 
Are  you  a  brave  girl  ?' 

"  'Yes,'  I  replied:   'Where's  father.'' 

"At  the  station,  daughter,'  he  said:  'He's 
<lcad.  He  killed  himself.  Come  along  with 
nie;  and  don't  tell  the  little  ones.  W^'ll  see 
what  can  be  dene.' 

"I  quieted  tue  little  ones  who  were  afraid  of 


i, 


270 


EAIBKRS 


ni 


the  big-  man  in  uniforiii.  and  k-fi  tlu-  l^  •I'^e  in 
company  witli  the  oHicer. 

"Arriving-  at  the  station.  I  \va^  pcrniincd  lo 
view  the  remains  of  my  jjoor  fatlier  in  a  rear 
room  of  the  hniUhn^-.  There  \va->  a  lon^-  Mack- 
cloth  over  tlie  body,  wliich  the  capta.:i  arew 
back  j^ently  off  ilie  pahid  face. 

'"There  was  a  little,  round,  red  hole  aI)o\  ■  the 
temi)le.  which  told  too  plainly  the  trai;ic  story 
of  our  loss. 

"I  did  not  weep.  I  did  not.  for  a;:  instant, 
feel  threatened  by  emotion.  1  felt  C(.ld.  as  if 
the  blood  had  o^one  out  i>\  mv  veins.  A  faint- 
ness  came  over  me  and  the  tips  of  my  fm^-ers 
stung  numbly.  A  cold  >weat  cam-  out  over 
my  body.  I  swayed  Strong  arms  caught  me 
as  I  was  falling  backwards,  and  carried  me  to  a 
lounge  in  the  matron's  room. 

"I  did  not  faint.  This  last,  cru^hin.;-  blow 
seemed  unneeded  for  my  preparatir,n  for  the 
life  that  awaited  me. 

"In  a  few  moments.  I  sat  up :  for  I  was  think- 
ing, little  mother  that  I  \\a>.  of  the  others 
waiting  for  me,  there,  at  Imnie. 

"Presently  the  captam  eanie  into  the  ro.nn 
and  drew  a  chair  n\-vr  \n  the  luimge. 


EMBERS 


271 


"He  Miked  very  Icindly,  s'lvin-  anioncr  r.thcr 
tliin,^-s  that  we  un,il,l  all  he  taken  care  of. 

■•T  Men  he  t-.ok  me  to  a  cah  that  was  standin- 
at  the  station  door,  and  o-ot  in  heside  me. 

••When  we  arrived  home,  the  si.i^ht  hewil- 
dered  me. 

■"I  had  seen  plenty  in  the  homes  of  nei.t^dihor- 
""^-  children  and  playmates;  hut  never  in  our 
"wn  home  had  there  hecn  such  a  varied  and 
l)ountitul  suj)j)ly  of  pro\isions. 

'•f'Ut  I  could  n..t  eat.     'j'he  food  -a^'i^ed  me. 

It  \\as  the  meat  of  charity.     And  'l.  who  was 

"Mer  than   the  others  and   could  miderstand. 

titrnvd  from  these  cr\its  of  stran^re  hands,  sick- 

etied  and  pained  at  heart. 

"The  captain  went  away.  Me  came  again 
the  following  day. 

■It  had  hcen  arranged,  he  told  me,  that  [ 
would  go  to  his  home  to  live,  i  would  be  al- 
lotted lighL  tasks  about  the  house  for  mv  keep, 
n)  order,  he  explained,  that  i  might  feel  inde- 
pendent. 

'•Julia,  the  next  oldest  of  the  family,  was  to 
be  given  employment  in  the  home  of  a  wealthy 
merchant.     The  others  were  to  be  placed  in  an 


h 


?7'> 


EMBERS 


5*1 


institution,  where  I  could  visit  them  from  time 
to  time. 

"It  wrung  my  heart  to  think  of  breaking  up 
our  wretched  home  and  parting  trom  the  httle 
(Kies. 

•"But  after  ihey  had  gone  to  sleep,  Julia  and 
I  talked  it  over  for  manv  hours,  and  finally 
concluded  it  was  the  best  thing  to  do. 

"Three  days  later  I  entered  my  new  home. 

■"Madame  La  Force,  the  captain's  wife,  re- 
ceived me  kindly;  and  the  first  weeks  of  niy 
?tay  under  their  roof  were  happy  ones,  consid- 
ering:, of  course,  my  recent  bereavement. 

"But  the  captain,  a  good  enough  man  at 
heart,  was  destined  to  bring  about  my  undoing. 

"The  La  Forces  had  been  married  some  ten 
vTears  when  I  went  to  live  with  them.  They 
had  had  no  children,  which  was  a  source  of 
biner  disappointment  to  him. 
^^••After  the  first  few  years  of  their  wedded 
life,  the  captain  had  grown  indififerent  to  his 
wife's  caresses;  and  though  never  quarreling, 
there  was  little  in  common  between  them  as 
man  and  ^'if'^ 

^  "Madame  La  Force  and  I  soon  became  fast 
friends.    We  worked  together  about  the  house, 


EMBERS 


272> 


like  sister 


teach 


s :  and  she  took  a  d 


'nnf  nic  sewiiin;-  and  f 


'ccp  iiitcTcst  in  nic. 
inc\-  work. 


"I  had  h-ved  with  then,  something  ovn-  .jv 
nionths,  before  any  notieeahle  chan<a>  canK- 
over  the  Iiouschold. 

"Then  one  day,  a  violent  ,,iK-u-rel  broke  out 
between  the  eaptain  and  his  wife.  There  were 
hard  words;  and  onee  [  heard  n,y  nan.e  spoken 
hy  Madame  La  Force. 

''r  knew  instantly.  thou,^d.  1  can  swear  before 
^od  that  I  was  innocent  of  anv  wroni^^  i„tcnt 
or  ac  ,  that  \  was  the  cause  of  the  quarrel. 

They  tell  us  that  o-uih  manifests  itsdf  in 
^le  face  of  the  wrongdoer.      I  ^uni  belie^•e  it 
For,  though  blameless,  mv  natural   sensitive- 
ness now  cau.sed  n.e  to  blush  and  turn  awav 
-y  eyes  hke  the  guiltiest  of  won.en  whenever 
Uound  myseh  face  to  face  with  Aladan.e  La 
^orce      I   know   she   noted   this   and   tliat    it 
served  to  confirm  her  in  her  false  opinion 
I  had  never  interpreted  the  captain's  kind- 

pity  for  an  orphaned,  homeless  crirl 

"But  the  new  attitude  of  my  mistress  seemed 

o  open  n.y  eyes.     1  saw  now  with  nmch  pain 

that  .she  was  to  a  degree  justified  in  her  sus- 


i 


274 


EMBERS 


l)ici()iis.  I  !(.■  \\a>  ()\\T  solicitous  of  mv  comfort, 
i  n)ul(i  see  li'ai  he  followed  mc  with  Jiis  eyes 
when  I  passed  throu-h  the  fooin.  He  would 
make  me  little  presents  of  wearing'-  ai)parel.  At 
table  his  conversation  was  directed  almost 
wholly  to  me.  If  I  did  or  made  aiiythins",  it 
was  perfect. 

"His  nei;Iect  of  his  wife  soon  became  brutal. 
One  day.  I  resolved  to  leave.  We  were  at  suj)- 
per  when  I  i(»ld  ihem  of  my  decision.  Captain 
Ea  Force  made  no  reply.  His  wife  ro.-e  from 
the  table  and  went  uj)stairs,  to  her  room.  An 
bour  later,  w  hen  she  came  into  the  kitchen,  she 
was  quite  pale  and  her  e\  es  were  red  and  swol- 
len. She  came  u\)  to  me  and  took  both  my 
hands  iii  her  own: 

■■"Where  are  yon  i^oing,  \"aldette?'  she 
asked. 

"1  replied  that  [  did  not  know,  and  turned 
back  to  the  dishe-,  for  my  eyes  were  full. 

'"You're  a  -ood.  brave  girl,'  slie  rejoined 
and  left  the  room  hurriedly. 

"That  nio-ht.  ben, re  -oing  to  bed,  1  .^.j-athered 
together  what  fe-v  belongings  J  posst'ssed,  as 
I  was  determined  to  leave  on  the  morrow. 

"This  done,  1  sal  down  on  the  edge  of  my 


>he 


KMUHRS 


275 


'n-fl  to  ihiiik 


<  "vir  tl: 


wcc'k.s  ;iiul  pl.in   ,"nr  il 


I'  rvriiN  of  the  Ia-,t    f 
ic  1  in  lire. 


t--\v 


f  went  l).i(k 


'>y^'y  iii\-  lile.  :i>  niK 


'Alii,  when 


•■^'1  iiiiportant  rh;:n-v  is  ;i!,o„t  t,,  take  [.lace. 

'•I  nuist  have^al  there  I'Mr  a  km- lime,  when 
ilie  kn-.h  tnnied  -^.ntly  i,.  the  (l,.,,r.  and  f  saw 
Captain  La  \-nvcc  Man<hn-  he|-nre  nie  on  the 
tlH-csh.Id.  II,.  faee  ua^  pak-  and  his  eves 
larger  than  I  !,ad  ever  .een  them. 

"I  si)ran-  to  iii\-  iVet  and  motioned  him.  with 
a  sweep  ..f  the  arm.  to  lea\e. 

"He  threw  out  his  hands  lo  me  in  a  -esture 
ol  mnte  appeak 

"  '('O  away!"  I  eommanded  in  a  hoarse  whis- 
per. 

"  'Von  know,  ilicn?-  he  a.sked.     "is  that  why 
you  re  leaving.^' 

"'Ves.'  I  rcph-ed.  'Co  away!'  and  I  pushed 
tlie  door  a-ainsi  him  and  j-oreed  him  hack. 

••Tlie  next  day,  hefore  hre.aklast.  I  was  gone. 

"I  found  k)dgino-  i„  a  hitle  house  on  Saint 
l^awrence  street,  and  set  ahoui  to  IukI  some  new 
means  of  livelihoo(k 

"For  three  day.  1  k.fi  niv  room  earlv  in  the 
niornmg  and  tramped  about  the  streets  until 
late  in  the  afternoon. 


270 


I-Mi'.KRS 


"I  would  meet  with  a  rrhnff  lu-re.  a  eurl 
answer  there.  Sonic  were  kind;  and  ..trered 
me  tea,  and  qiiestioiu-d  me  al.out  iiu  liie.  I'.ut 
it  so  happened  that  none  wvw  in  luvd  of  lu-lp. 
"On  the  fourth  day.  I  was  passin--  a 
churcli  on  X.,ire  Dame  siRel  when  I  hecame 
suddenly  very  faint,  li  was  noon;  and  I  had 
liad  no  food  that  da  v. 

"With  ,i,M-eai  effort  I  eh'mhed  the  steps  lead- 
mg  up  to  the  door  of  the  cliurch.  and  went  in. 
I  can  recall  makin-  „,y  way  uncertainly  to  a 
pew.  Then  all  grew  dim  heiore  me.  My  ears 
rang  with  sounds  that  seeiiud  vcrv  I'ar  away.  I 
felt  strong  arms  about  me.  Then  everything 
turned  black;  and  a  mercil'ul  numbness  came 
over  me  that  was  like  a  peaceful  sleep. 

"When  1  awoke,  1  was  lying  on  a  little  white 
cot  in  a  room  with  green  and  vellow  walls. 
•'An  old  woman  was  seated  bv  the  bedside 
She  rose  from  the  chair  when  i  opened  my 
eyes,  and  left  the  room.  A  moment  later  she 
relurned  with  a  priest.  1  learned  from 'him 
tliat  1  was  in  the  parish  house. 

"  'Wbere  is  your  home,  my  girl?'  he  asked, 
nor  unkindly. 

"I  told  him   I   had  no  home,  as  well  as  the 
rest  ot  my  sad  story. 


EMBERS 

He  tlioui^-ht  a  lonq-  while-  tl 
rou 


277 


len  sriid 


cannot  sK'cp  jui-i-  tonifrlit 


cause  scandal.     Are 
with  me?    I    hall  fuRl  you  a  pi 
"A  I  ' 


it  niii^-ht 
you  \vell  cn()ui,di  to  drive 


ice. 


nonient; 

the  streets  to  a  far  section  of  the  ciU'""''     "' 

"The  priest  spoke  little.     Me  was  well  alouo- 

>n  years      He  was  :,  little,  stooped  man  with  an 
ascetic  face. 

"We  had  driven  several  miles  when  he  said- 
1  am  takm.j^  you  to  a  convent.' 

"I  started  up. 

"He  laughed;  and  placin.^^  his  hand  upon  n,v 
shoulder  said,  in  an  assuring  tone:  "Xow  lunv 
you  must  not  be  frightened  so  easilv.  Did  vou' 
thmk  r  meant  to  make  a  nun  of  you?  Not  at 
all,  my  girl.  You  will  have  a  good  home  wi[h 
the  sKsters;  a  very  good  home-vou  shall  see'' 

We  drew  rein,  as  night  was  falling,  before 
the  entrance  of  a  large,  severe-looking  gray 
structure.    Over  the  doorway,  in  a  niche,  wis  a 

tatue  of  the  Good  Shepherd,  holding  a  latnb  to 
his  breast. 

"My  heart  failed  me  at  sight  of  the  grim  re- 
treat. But  my  companion  took  me  gently  by 
the  arm  and  I  permitted  him  to  lead  nte  in. 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

ANSI  end  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2' 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


'^  flM   MM 


32 


y36 


>-  ,. 


1.4 


2.2 


!r   1^     1 2.0 


1.8 


1.6 


^  APPLIED  IIVMG^J 

^^_  '553   East    Woin   ':-t'eet 

-  -=  'fochesler,    Ne»    I'ork         U609       USA 
■=  '16)    482  -0300 -Phone 

''6'    ;88      b9S'i   -  f  T 


'  \ 


278 


EMP.ERS 


"Sister  Ldrclia.  the  suiierioress,  came  at  once 
to  the  reception  rdiMii;  and  alter  a  few  words 
in  private  with  the  i)riest,  conducted  nic  into 
the  cloister. 

•'My  feehn;?  of  dread  was  soon  dissipated  by 
the  many  kimhiesses  of  the  sisters. 

"There  were  many  iin fortunate  ,L;-irls  in  the 
institution  who  Avere  tliere  for  the  purpose  of 
reformation.  Hut  1  was  not  permitted  to  min- 
o-le  with  any  of  these.  I  was  o-ivcn  charge  of 
the  guests'  (|uarters  and  only  came  in  contact 
with  the  nuns  and  the  visitors. 

"From  time  to  time  I  went  to  see  Julia  and 
th.e  little  ones. 

"Then,  one  day.  a  man  came  to  the  convent; 
a  young  man,  tall  and  dark,  with  large  black 

eyes. 

'  "I  well  remember  the  look  we  exchanged  on 
meeting  that  fn'st  time— a  long,  lingering  look, 
as  though  we  had  been  'peeking  each  other  all 
the  years  of  our  life  and  had  only  now  found 
our  hearts"  desire. 

"We  did  not  speak  th:it  first  time.  We  would 
not  have  known  wh.-it  to  say.  It  would  take 
time  to  formulate  -])eech.  1  made  enquiries 
about   him;   and   learned   that   he   was   Sister 


EMBERS 


279 


Loretta's  nejjhcw,  and  that  he  was  studying  for 
the  priestliood. 

''When  he  came  a,i;ain.  a  month  later,  he 
sought  me  out  and  spoke  to  me.  This  time  he 
wore  a  soutane. 

"  'You  are  going  to  he  a  priest."  \  said  in  a 
tone  that  betrayed  my  feeliniis. 

''He  did  not  answer;  hut  grasped  my  hand 
quickly  and  i)ressed  it  to  liis  lips.  1'hen  he 
hurried  away. 

"His  visits  became  frequent  now. 

"He  would  always  manage  to  see  me  for  a 
moment  before  leaving. 

"Indeed,  we  had  agreed  U|)on  a  trysting  place 
— a  dark  corner  where  no  one  went. 

"But  love  grows  bold;  and  one  day  when  I 
was  working  in  one  of  the  guests"  parlors,  he 
rushed  into  the  room  and,  taking  me  in  both 
his  arms,  kissed  me  a  dozen  times. 

"When  I  finally  freed  myself.  I  glanced  in- 
stinctively at  the  door.  Sister  Loretta  was 
standing  there,  speechless  and  very  white. 

"Fully  half  a  minute  nuist  have  passed  while 
the  three  of  us  stood  there  facing  one  another 
in  silence. 

"Presently,  the  nun  motioned  me  to  leave 
and  go  back  into  the  cloister. 


if    ! 


I 


280 


EMBERS 


^i 


"Just  then  Paul  stepped  in  front  of  me  and 
faced  his  aunt. 

"  'I  am  the  one.  not  she,'  he  said,  'who  is  to 
blame.  I  love  Valdette;  and  she  returns  my 
love.    She  will  go  where  I  go,  tonight.' 

"Then  he  turned  to  me  and  led  me  past  the 
nun,  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  steps  to  the 
street. 

"There  was  a  carri.'igo  nearby.  He  hailed  it 
and  T  got  in. 

"'Wait,'  he  said  to  the  driver;  and  went 
back  into  the  convent.  When  he  came  out,  a 
few  moments  later,  he  said:  'We  will  be  mar- 
ried tonight.     I  have  decided  that  love  is  best.' 

"  'Was  it  he,'  broke  in  Maurice,  'who  met 
you  at  the  dock  in  Liver])ool  ?" 

"Yes,  that  was  Paul.  We  are  so  happy! 
And,  mind  you,  he  has  never  a  regret  for  what 
he  did  for  me." 

She  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Maurice,"  she  said,  placing  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders:  "It  ill  becomes  me  to  speak. 
But  I  am  about  to  leave  you.  x\nd,  before  go- 
ing, I  would  say  just  this,  that  if  you  are  un- 
happy now,  what  must  be  the  bitterness  of 
heart  of  that  noble  girl  who  has  mothered  your 


EMBERS 


281 


little  one,  who  has  been  content  to  suffer  in 
silence,  all  these  years,  for  the  splendid  love 
she  bears  vou?" 

"Then  you  would  have  me ?" 

"Yes,  a  thousands  times,  yes!" 

"What!  Go  back?  Renounce  my  vows? 
Disgrace  my  family?    Are  you  mad?" 

"Maurice,  tell  me,  did  you  not  undertake  an 
obligation  to  Elaine,  long  before  you  made 
those  vows  you  speak  of?  Has  she  not  rights 
— even  before  God? 

"But,  forgive  me,  .Maurice.  I  have  spoken 
in  this  manner,  because  of  my  affection  for  you. 
And  I  have  already  said  that  it  ill  becomes  me 
to  speak.  I  only  wanted  to  light  the  way.  Per- 
haps you  will  see,  in  time. 

"My  husband  will  be  here  for  me  tonight. 
We  are  to  spend  the  summer  at  Ostende.  I 
shall  bid  you  farewell  at  the  convent  door.  Ah, 
here  comes  good  Brother  Pierre." 


There  was  a  great  cloud  of  gold  and  purple 
in  the  west.    The  sun  was  gone. 

The  breeze  from  the  river  was  damp  and 
cool. 


282 


EMBERS 


IP' 


They  followed  Brother  Pierre  hack  to  the 
waiting  carriage. 

"Pe,i^ase"  was  ([uite  npset  over  the  lone:  de- 
lay. He  threw  hack  his  ears  in  a  manner  more 
eloquent  than  words. 

In  the  gathering-  gloom,  the  old  carriage 
struggled  on  towards  the  city. 

They  parted  at  the  door  of  the  convent. 

Brother  Pierre  turned  the  horse  towards  the 
stable:  and  Maurice  was  left  alone  with  Val- 
dette,  in  the  darkness. 

The  sound  of  wooden  shoes  came  near  and 
passed,  dying  away  in  the  distance. 

They  could  not  see  each  other ;  for  the  night 
was  black. 

A  cool  wind  fluttered  the  leaves  in  the  trees, 
fretfully. 

The  woman  spoke: 

"Adieu,  Maurice." 

A  sob  rose  to  the  man's  throat : 

"Adieu,  Valdette." 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  her. 

But  she  was  gone. 

He  turned  to  the  door. 

A  gong  horn  within  clanged  harshly. 

An  old  lay  brother  opened  the  door. 


EMBERS 


283 


For  an  instant,  Brother  Rodray  ij^lanced  back 
into  the  dark,  deserted  street. 

Then  he  went  forward,  and  the  door  closed 
softly  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX. 


And  now  a  great  conflict  arose  within  him; 
a  struggle  to  the  death  l)etweeii  opposing 
forces. 

In  the  cloister,  things  and  men  seemed  to 
him  to  have  undergone  a  change. 

To  Maurice  they  were  no  longer  the  same. 

The  corridors  were  cold  and  cheerless;  his 
room  a  dungeon. 

The  brothers  and  priests  moved  about  him 
like  beings  from  another  world,  with  whom  he 
had  naught  in  common. 

He  looked  forward  to  his  meals  as  the  only 
pleasurable  incidents  of  the  day. 

His  aridity  of  soul  increased. 

He  found  but  bitterness  in  prayer. 

The  conversation  of  the  students  bored  him. 

He  sought  seclusion. 

The  public  penitences  were  horribly  out  of 
tune  with  his  mood. 

[284] 


EMBERS 


285 


im; 

1  to 


his 

lim 
I  he 

(Illy 


im. 


of 


Whenever  possible,  he  omitted  them. 

Those  of  a  private  nature,  such  as  eating 
aloes,  wearmg  the  girdle  of  horse-hair  or  steel 
points,  the  flagellation  on  Friday  nights  in 
commemoralion  of  the  Passion  of  Christ,  and 
many  other  deeds  having  for  end  the  purifying 
of  the  heart  and  the  chastening  of  the  body, 
were  no  longer  performed  by  him. 

He  read  much  of  romance,  taking  books  se- 
cretly from  the  priests'  library  and  secreting 
them  under  his  mattress  until  such  time  as  he 
could  read  them. 

On  his  way  through  the  city  streets  with  his 
fellows,  he  would  catch  himself  gazing  into  the 
eyes  of  women,  with  a  poignant  hungering  at 
heart. 

He  argued  this  matter  over  by  himself. 

He  knew  he  was  no  longer  pure ;  and  yet  he 
felt  quite  innocent  of  grievous  sin. 

At  times,  he  would  defend  his  conduct  with 
V'aldette. 

Who,  bemg  placed  in  a  like  position,  would 
have  resisted  ?  And,  besides,  that  had  been  all. 
It  had  stopped  there. 

He  went  so  far  as  to  tell  himself  that  he  had 
achieved  much  against  the  flesh,  in  turning 


I 


.. :)] 


jL 


2^h 


l-.MT.F'.RS 


Iiack,  ilin^,  fri.ni  tin.'  liiri'  oi'  a  palliway  strewn 
with  tlic  red  tlowc'Vs  oi'  pa-^inii,  and  rallin,^-  liini 
on  to  the  least. 

1  le  wonid  ^il  for  honr>  hy  tlie  win<low.  while 
tlie  others  slept.  ,L;a/inL;  out  into  the  ni^lu. 

The  stars,  tlie  moon  -heen,  tlie  swishin,^-  of 
the  l)ree/.e  in  tlie  lea\e-,  the  wee])in.i^  of  the 
rain  on  the  sodden  earth,  had  now  a  Lani^iiai^^e 
to  the  ear  of  hi>  soul. 

And  always  they  were  callin.L;-  him  away, 
hack  o\er  the  wastes,  to  the  l.e^inninL^.  where 
[I  woman  held  his  face  in  hoth  her  hands,  her 
p^reat  blue  eyes  tilled  with  tears,  and  tenderly 
murmuring  his  name:  "Maurice,  oh.  Maurice!" 

Xow  that  X'aldette  was  gone,  he  gave  her 
but  little  thought. 

At  times,  the  menior\  of  her  even  caused 
him  irritation;  for  it  was  she  who  had  pointed 
the  way  to  him,  back  o\er  the  wastes. 

He  knew  his  life  could  not  run  on  forever  in 
this  way;  that  he  must,  sooner  r)r  later,  make 
decision  between  the  cloister  and  the  world. 

He  shrank  instinctively  from  thought  of  the 
final  hour,  be  the  outcome  of  the  struggle  what 
it  might.  For  in  either  instance,  it  must  cause 
him  pain. 


% 


EMP>ERS 


287 


One  nisj^ht  he  trii-d  to  prav. 
FUit  his  words  wi-rc  like  i^rill  to  his  hps.     He 
turned  anew  to  the  moon  sheen  and  the  stars 
and  the  swishing-  of  the  breeze  in  the  leaves. 

By  decrees,  his  fervor  had  relaxed  until  now 
his  inditterence  was  as  much  a  matter  of  com- 
ment in  the  community  as  had  been  his  former 
devotion. 

Weeks  went  by.     Life  became  intolerable. 

One  day,  he  failed  to  attend  Mass,  remain- 
ing' in  his  room  instead. 

For  this  he  was  penalized  in  open  chapter, 
and  sent  into  retreat  for  seven  days. 

The  enforced  silence,  the  meditations,  the  re- 
ligious exercises  of  this  period  of  discipline 
were  unendurable  to  Maurice. 

He  was  himself  astonished  at  the  great  depth 
of  his  fall  from  grace. 

He  thought  constantly,  now,  of  Elaine. 

He  longed  for  her  emb"aces. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  yearned  for 
the  open  spaces  of  the  country,  the  streams,  the 
forests. 

He  came  to  love  the  tender  blades  of  grass 
at  his  feet,  the  humblest  flowers. 

He  would  w^atch  the  birds  mating. 


28<S 


EMBERS 


V 


The  lowliest  scenes  of  nature  Idok  on  :m  in- 
definable charm  to  his  eye. 

lie  hunj^ered  for  his  child. 

lie  xvondered  if  shr  was  like  l-Maine. 

I  lis  heart  throbbed  with  love  lust :  and.  all 
unconsciously,  his  arms  went  out  to  clasp  her. 

The  days  dragged  slowly  by,  growing  longer 
as  they  went. 

Maurice  \vas  crushed  by  the  very  intensity 
of  his  loneliness. 

lie  grew  to  hate  the  walls  that  rose  about 
him,  cold,  forbidding,  austere. 

There  was  no  ray  of  gladness  in  his  life. 

lie  was  wretched;  and  his  heart  burned  with 
desire  for  the  love  that  was  denied  him. 

It  dawned  upon  him  now  that  he  had  played 
her  false — the  woman  in  Lasalle. 

Why  had  he  not  seen  it  in  this  light  long 
ago,  when  he  prated  of  his  love  to  her? 

He  struck  his  breast,  and  called  upon  heaven, 
madly,  to  give  hini  light. 

Clearly  did  he  see  his  duty  to  the  child;  and 
likewise,  to  her  mother. 

But  a  voice  in  his  heart  recused  him  of  a 
baser  passion. 

The  thought  whelmed  him  with  confusion. 


MI'.KKS 


J8<' 


I""!-,  if  Ik-  should  lake  \hv  stq) — it  lu-  slmuld 
v<»  bai-k,  ii  iiui>t  ])v  with  a  ch-.m  licari. 

.\.i,Min  he  prayed  for  Ljuidalue;  and  a^ain. 

lUit  his  words  wc-iii  waste:  and  he  feU  hke  a 
hollow   thing-. 

1  lien,  one  day  tlu  n  i.niiii«4  >uii  hiiist  jn  iipon 
him  in  passionate  warmth. 

I  he  bird.s  awoke  him  with  their  son^^s. 

I'Voni  the  parterres,  the  novvers  .smiled  up  at 
him,  and  the  dew-pearls  ..n  their  petals  glisi- 
<'ned  like  tears  of  )oy. 

All  nature  was  callin;^  him. 

There  could  be  no  mistake. 

lit  yearned  for  tiie  <on^  of  the  wind  in  the 
niai)!es,  the  dull  r.xir  of  the  cataract,  the  wild, 
riotous  bloom  of  field  and  wood,  f<,r  the  em- 
braces of  }<:iaine,  his  mate,  who  was  callin,i,r. 

The  humming  of  love-laden  voices  f'illed 
his  ears. 

'Phe  perfumes  of  the  earth  and  her  flowers 
dilated  his  nostrils  and  riuickened  his  brain  t.. 
intoxication. 

Had  he  been  asleep  all  these  year,>? 

Why  had  he  not  heard  the  call  before  r  Ah. 
there  was  much  good  in  the  world,  where  man 
and  maid  followetl  the  eternal  law.  and  em- 
braced and  lived  as  one! 


J'X) 


KM15EKS 


V 

m 


III 


There  was  tio  i^n-caler  law.  tig  purer  law, 
when  love  abode  between. 

It  sprang-  in  the  human  heart  like  the  water 
ill  the  spring. 

It  called  for  a  mate  for  man;  and  was  as  in- 
in>cent  f»f  wronj^ful  lust  as  the  flower  that  is 
sterile  until  favcred  with  the  pollen  of  the  male. 

Love,  the  all-consuminj^  flame,  the  greatest 
of  heaven's  gifts. 

He  drank  in  the  glad  air. 

His  thoughts  bounded  away,  over  the  seas, 
to  Elaine  and  the  child. 

The  blood  surged  to  his  temples. 

1  lis  heart  throbbed  with  a  great  desire  for 
freedom. 

He  glanced  back  from  the  window,  at  the 
bare  wliite  walls  of  his  room,  at  the  crucifix 
and  the  images  of  Saint  Ann  and  the  \'irgin. 

The  severity  of  the  scene  chilled  him. 

He  turned  anew  to  the  bird  -^ongs.  the  trees 
and  the  flowers. 

His  head  swam;  and  his  heart  throbbed  with 
great  emotion. 

The  woman  had  coiKiuercd. 

He  shouted  aloud,  in  very  ecstasy  of  joy: 

"I  shall  go  back,  laaine!     [  shall  go  back!" 


ciJ.\riKRi\VKN.TN-si':\i:.\. 


H 


<♦ 


m 


It  was  one  thing  for  Brother  Rodray  to  de- 
cide and  another  to  put  his  decision  to  execu- 
tion. 

This  much  was  settled  in  his  mind:  he  would 
leave  the  Order.  He  would  return  to  Lasalk-, 
to  Elaine,  to  the  .soil. 

But  he  had  no  sooner  reached  the  decision 
than  it  dawned  upon  him  that  what  he  was 
about  to  undertake  was  by  no  means  an  eas\' 
task. 

lM)r  one  could  not  merely  pick  up  one's  be- 
longings and  walk  out  of  the  great  iron  gates 
of  the  convent  to  freedom. 

He  knew  that  in  the  Order  of  the  .Most  Holy 
Saviour,  the  renunciation  of  the  three  life  vows, 
b\-  a  religious,  was  a  thing  shuddered  at;  an  act 
heinous,  despicable. 

The  apostasy  of  a  S.alvatorist  was  spoken  of 
in  whispers  among  the  remaining  faithful. 

[291] 


292 


KM15ERS 


II 


J  t 


P.ut  the  siil)ion  wa-  (lisia^^tcfiil.  and  ^eldimi 
broached. 

In  his  sorn  ons  upon  Perseverance.  Father 
Moreau  would  alhide  to  ilie  departed  ones,  for- 
l)earini^  to  mention  their  names,  as  deserters 
and  fallen  sohhers  of  the  Cross:  .Manx-  were 
called,  hut  few  were  chosen. 

This  violation  of  the  \ows  hv  the  troth- 
I)lii::hted  would  redound  to  them  in  miserv.  sor- 
row and  death. 

Their  joys  would  he  tin^^ed  with  hiiterness, 
their  lives  overshadowed  In  the  ever  present 
memory  of  their  sin. 

They  had  proven  false  to  their  trust. 

Their  defection  was  n<5  less  a  heirayal  than 
that  of  Judas  Iscariot.  For  they  had  I'allen 
from  the  hei.^hls  to  which  tlie\-  had  heen  called, 
with  full  knowledge  and  consent,  into  the 
ilepths  where  darkness  was  and  desolation. 

r.roiher  Rodray  was  well  aware  of  the  mood 
in  which  the  l*refect  had  received  others  who 
hail  gone  to  him,  to  give  notice  (»f  their  deter^ 
mination  to  leave  the  (Jriler. 

He  shuddered  ;it  thought  of  the  jjrie.st's 
wratli;  for  he  knew  him  to  he  (juite  terrible  in 
his  denunciation  of  ijiosc  about  to  unfrock. 


EMBERS 


293 


S(..  no\'..  Uv  <c\  ahoui  to  derive  ways  and 
means  ot  esca|)e.  by  which  lie  might  avoid  the 
(h-cadcd  conflict  with  P'ather  Moreau. 

He  sought  to  evolve  a  scheme  by  which  all 
might  he  easily  arranged,  and  in' a  friendly 
manner. 

Accordingly.  ..ne  day,  he  wrote  to  the  Pro- 
vincial, in  Brnssels,  asking  the  latter  dignitarv 
lor  a  transfer  to  the  l-jiglish  province  of  the 
'  )rder. 

I  lie  application  was  gixcn  due  consideration 
'"11  ret'uscd.  for  the  reason  that  thev  were  ver> 
much  in  need  of  luiglish  speaking  missionaries 
in  Canada. 

A  desperate  plan  occurred  to  him. 

He  thought  of  going  to  \'aldeltc  for  assist- 
ance. 

She  would  he  at  (Jslend  for  the  summer. 
I  le  would  need  hut  sufficient  funds  to  take 
liin)  across  the  water. 
Ne  was  penniless. 
She  would  understand. 

Once  in   l.asalle.  he  could  easilv  return  the 
loan. 

He  c.juld   scale   the  garden    wall   at    night 
while  the  others  slept. 


294 


EMBERS 


It  would  be  an  unmanly,  cowardly  under- 
taking, this  wild  hegira  in  the  darkness  of 
night. 

But  it  was  the  easiest  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty. 

lie  shrank  from  explanations  on  his  part 
and  hrowheatings  on  that  of  the  Prefect. 

After  much  (liought  he  decided  to  adopt  the 
plan. 

'I  here  was  a  promenade  into  the  coimtry  that 
day. 

I'rother  Rodrav  did  ni»t  accompany  the 
students. 

Instead,  he  remained  at  the  convent,  un- 
der pretext  of  being  indisposed. 

When  the  others  had  been  gone  .-ome  time, 
he  went  to  the  clothes  room  where  hung  the 
civilian  garments  of  those  who  had  taken  the 
habit  and  remained  in  the  Order. 

After  a  long  search  he  recognized  the  black 
suit  he  had  worn  l)et\)re  donning  the  cassock. 

It  was  co\ered  a\  ith  h  thick  layer  of  soft, 
gray  dust. 

He  took  it  to  his  room. 

After  restoring  it  to  its  former  color,  by 
means  of  a  stiff  brush,  he  removed  his  habit 
and  tried  on  the  suit. 


EMBERS 


295 


tlu 


un- 


it was  very  much  too  small. 
^  The    trouser   lei^s   came   above    his    ankles. 
The  waist  was  ver}-  tight.     The  coat  sleeves 
were  too  short,  as  was  the  c(X'it  itself,  which 
would  not  button. 

He  walked  tlu-  length  r,f  the  room,  as  one 
struts  before  a  tailor. 

He  made  to  sit  down :  but,  with  laudable  tact, 
desisted. 

"Well,"  he  said  I'mallv  to  himself,  grazing  at 
his  sorry  reflection  in  the  glass :  "It 's  the  only 
suit  I  possess.  If  I  took  one  of  (he  others,  it 
would  be  theft.    This  v.ill  have  to  do.- 

He  thrust  his  hand  in  a  coat  i-ocket. 

He  felt  something  crumpled,  like  stiff  paper. 

It  was  seven  dollars  in  Canadian  monev. 

It  must  have  been  left  over  from  his  journey 
to  Saint  Trond. 

He  would  need  it  for  his  trip  to  Ostend. 
It  was  his. 

He  disrobed  again  and  slipped  into  his 
>outane. 

He  folded  the  niit  and  laid  it  carefullv  under 
his  mattress. 

Then  he  went  down  into  the  garden  and 
walked  alr>ng  the  \mh  that  skirted  the  wall,  at 


J9() 


EMBERS 


the  tar  end,  where  the  trees  hid  the  enelosure 
from  the  convent. 

That  niL,dit  he  (hd  not  trust  himself  to  sleen: 
hut  sat  by  his  window  until  the  carillon  in  the 
tower  of  the  town-hall  had  chimed  the  tnid- 
niqht  hour. 

Xow  he  dressed  in  civilian  garh,  and  left  his 
room,  lie  .stood  for  a  moment,  still,  in  the 
Corridor. 

I'iie  heavy  hreathin.!;  ot  the  sleepers  was  all 
lie  could  hear. 

lie  closed  tlie  door  i^^nlly  behind  him  and 
^tole  down  the  corridor  to  the  stairway. 

A  stc])  creaked  treacherously  under  his 
wei,^•lll  and  his  I,eart  leaped  to  his  throat. 

A  cold  sweat  came  out  on  his  face  and  he 
trembled  wretchedlv. 

lie  <1(hh\  still  a  mom"nt.  listening;  then, 
went  on. 

lie  came  u>  an  open  door.  and.  taking  the 
■^horiesi  path,  lip-toed  his  wav  to  the  most  ob- 
scure end  of  the  garden. 

He  ran  his  hands  u])  over  his  head  on  the 
rough  bricks  of  the  wall. 

it  had  never  seemed  so  high  to  him. 

He  could  not.  e\  en  by  jumping  up,  touch  the 

lO]). 


I'^K 


tier 


KM HERS 

He  thought  ot  a  ladder  which  the  -irde 
used  in  the  pruiiiuo-  „f  trees. 

ft  must   he  in  the  tooI-hoUM-  in  the  rear  of 
the  convent,      lie  started  hack  over  the  little 
path,  hreathlo^s.  heavilv  laden  with  a  sense  of 
shameful  guilt,  hut  confident  of  success. 
The  night  \va>  still  and  clear. 
'Hie  earth  lay  hathed  in  pale,  ghostiv  light. 
Great  glittering  continents  ..f  stars  fi'lled^'the 
sky,  making  the  night  heautiful. 

The  moon  \\as  very  rMund  and  white. 
Hrother   R..dray  had  covered  half  the  dis- 
tance to  the  tool-house. 

He  oould  .see  the  laddc  r  leaning  against  the 
wall  o^  the  huilding. 
His  i)lan  was  entire  and  go(Kl. 
He  would  reach  the  toj)  of  the  garden  wall 
hy  means  of  the  ladder.     Me  woul.l  then  drag 
It  up  and  place  it  again-t  the  outer  side. 

This  done,  he  had  hui  to  descend  the  ladder 
to  the  street  to  he  free. 
■'Brother  Rodrav!"" 

He  stopped  shon  and  reeled,  hke  a  man  shot 
In  the  moonlight  he  saw  Father  Aloreau,  ap- 
proachmg  al  a  quick  pace. 
"\\  hat  dr>es  this  mean'"" 


298 


EMBERS 


"I  was  lookine:  tor  the  ladder,  to  scale  the 
wall,  yonder.  I  am  i^oiii^^  back  into  the  world, 
hack  to  Lasallc.  to  ;•.  wo>iati  there,  and  her 
child — our  child." 

Then  he  told  Moreau  the  .story  of  T^laine  and 
t!ie  child. 

"Why  did  yon  not  lell  nu-  this  before,  mv 
son?" 

"I  feared  yon  wonld  not  nnderstand." 

And  now  Morean  was  like  a  woman. 

He  embraced  Maurice  and  wept  (n-er  the 
coming  separation. 

"f  cannot  advise  yon.  my  son.  Do  as  your 
conscience  speak>.  The  \va\s  of  God  are  in- 
scrutable: and  we  are  but  feeble  thinj::;-s  at  best. 
Come,  my  dear  P.rothe-.  ^o  to  your  room  and 
to  bed.  Tomorrow  1  shall  w  rite  the  Provincial 
and  explain  things.  Jn  the  meantime,  pray  the 
\^irgin,  that  yon  mav  be  guided  in  this  most 
important  matter.  .\h,  Maurice,  my  lad,  little 
did  1  ever  dream  that  it  would  come  to  this — 
with  you!  And  yei,  1  feared  something  might 
be  wrong.  Tonight  1  heard  you  leave  your 
room;  and  followed  you.  Ah,  the  ways  of 
God!" 

I\ather    .Moreau   made  good   his   word  and 


KM  HERS 


299 


wrote  to  the  Fatlier  Provincial,  requesting  the 
release  of  Brother  Rodray. 

Two  da\s  later  the  answer  came,  -nd  the 
I 'refect  notitied  Maurice  that  he  was  free. 

The  Provincial's  letter  was  received  on  Tues- 
day, late  in  the  afternoon. 

By  makini,'  haste  he  would  still  be  in  time 
for  the  Antwer[)  train  which  made  connections 
with  the  Channel  steamer  for  Harwich. 
Jle  was  ready  an  houi*  lvfr)re  train  lim(\ 
He  slipped  the  ca»ock  over  his  civilian  dre.vs 
so  that  the  >tudenls  mi.^ht  not  surmi.>e  his  aj) 
proachincr  flepariure.  and  went  to  tlie  rciector\- 
in  company  with  F'.ithe,-  Moreau. 

After  a  Vv^hl  lunch,  hv  announced  him-elf 
read}-. 

He  passed  down  tlie  lonj;-.  damj)  corridors, 
his  steps  re-  nndinr^  harshly  in  his  ears. 

It  seemed  t  >  him  that  the  saints,  in  image 
and  statue,  loo  :v(\  down  upr>n  him  sadly,  re- 
proaclifuily,  as  lir  uent  by.  never  to  return. 

Arriving  in  the  gue-ts"  quarters,  Father 
Moreau  opened  tlie  door  of  a  parlor  and  men- 
tioned him  to  enter. 

It  was  the  room  with  the  red  sofa,  in  which 
he  and  X'aldetfv-  had  been  together. 


.-.(Ml 


kmhF':ks 


ll<-iv  Ik-  irii)()\i-,l  ihr  liahjt. 

fvrs  (illcd  with  ((.-ars. 

.Main-ia- km-l,  to  rm-ivc-  the  lK-,u-(l,ction.  Ins 
iK-ad  hciit  u|)(,n  his  hfoast  : 

•'i^.encdiVai  t,-  Dontinii.  i„  „..„„,„.  Catn.  .1 
'•''"  ot  Spiritiis  Saitcti.  aim-n!" 

''^Iie   o-ato   ssvmv^  hack.      Ma.nicc   ualkrd 

'"i«'ntothc-o.hhk.(istrcc-t.uhichuas,„hi 
tlH'hesinniiio-nf  a  u  ..rid  st  ra.i.or  attd  all  h 

•  "I'lr'^ttfii. 


till 
itt 


I  II  \|'Ti:r  t\\|.;\t\m;i(,u 


"■  """■■•■"  ■"  lsi,l„r..s  visi,  ,„  I,,,,, 
'"">•■  '•■•U'l.sio  1.0  1!I..„K-  «..,s  lrans,>rre,l  m 
.. e  of  ,l,ev,,,l™,„,.„-,U.  „,„,,„„„,„,,, 
the  asylum.  ^ 

Twice  he  ha.l  hcvn  rrcornnu-ndcd  for  dis- 
l^^l'arge,  as  he  appeared  to  the  physicians  to  be 
recovered,  and  in  nnrn.al  condition 

f-^ach  tune,  hou  e^  er.  he  had  broken  out  anew 

^  t"l^'  the  cuesfon  of  his, elea^e  was  .still  un- 
der consideration. 

newonidcro,  forweeksalatin.e.toallan- 
l-an.nce.  tully  posses<ed  of  his  faculties        ' 

';>on.  suddenly  and  witi^nn  warnin-  he 
uouid  turn  violent. 

'>"  a  nuniber  of  occasions  he  had  even  -u- 
^<'"Mned  thehvesottho.se  about  him 

It  Nvas  decided,  after  ihe  visit  .>r  hi.  uepiiew 

and  ns  attack  t,p<>ninm.  that  it  was  no  loWe 

^afe  to  allow  hinMhefreedouM.-  the  o,.und; 

(301) 


3i)> 


l.MIJKKS 


1. 


li' 


W  lic-ti  i;apn\(f  caiiu-  to  lii>  ncusc-s  three  days 
later  lie  v. as  i,,  a  lart^ro.  hare  n.oiii.  with  wild- 
eyed  iiianiaes  ahnui  liim. 

A  liiiard  stood  at  thr  door  to  prevent  ej^ress. 

Tlie  windows  were  h.Mied  heavily. 

He  realized,  at  once,  the  hoiK-Iessness  of  his 
position;  and  determined  upon  escape. 

At  times  the  conversation  of  Isidore  would 
recur  to  him. 

Little  uy  little,  the  su-tre.,tion  ot  hurnini,^  the 
Rodray  homestead  hecame  fixed  in  his  mind. 

One  day,  when  Alamman  came  to  see  him,  he 
told  her  that  he  j-rew  very  lonesome  at  times 
and  that  he  felt  the  Jieed  of  somethin^r  ,vith 
which  to  amuse  himself  and  help  pass  the  time. 

Mamman  su-i,a\sted  cards,  checkers  and 
dominoes. 

Hut  iJaptiste  would  have  none  of  these. 

"I  tell  you,  Alamman.  what  would  suit  me 
iK-tter  than  all  that:  hlocks.  little  huildinj,- 
I'locks,  such  as  1  used  to  buv  for  'la  Petite' 
when  she  was  a  bain .  The  wooden  ones,  you 
know.  I  understand  they  are  making-  them  of 
>tone,  now;  but  I  want  the  wooden  ones.  Mam- 
man,  luring  mc  sexerai  boxes  of  ihem,  so  that 
I  can  put  up  a  j.retty  g.>od-sized  building." 


KMI'.KkS 


303 


M 


iminan  uiiit  t..  iln  *  ii 


the  hlocks.  hcforc  I 


\  .111.1  iitiirm-<l  with 


H 


IcaxiiiL:  iMf  li,)ini. 


ipli' te  was  ovtTi«.M-.I. 


!<•  ^et 


■II  led 


an\i(jn>  \n  ]k-  k-i{  aUjiw  with  tJi 


t<»ys,  stiKiyiiiiL;  tlir  i)ictiuv>  Mti  tl 
^^  iiii  all  the  i'a.L,'(.Tncss  <u'  a  cliild 

MaiHiuaii    wnii    |)afk    (..    1 
wrarv  of  lieart. 


U-  >(|ll;!i-c'  l)()\<.' 


'.•^allt 


il« 


sad 


anc 


And 


now  liaptistc  took  anotlicr  cli 


UK-  belter. 


ini^e  tor 


I. lock 


I'or  days  at  a  time,  lie  huMed  himself  with  his 
s,  in  a  corner  of  the  ward,  while  the  other 


inmates  stocd  about,  in 


circle,  watching;  ih< 


structure  assume  definite  -hape. 


TI 


icre  was  a  house  with  "fables-  th 


harns.  sheep-j)ens  and  stabl 


ere  were 


es. 


T\ 


lere  were  fences  over  tiie  plac 


( )iie    day,    when    the    build 


erected  for  the  hundredth  time.   llaDt 
to  his  feet,  and  trazed.  f 


and  tree>. 


in.us    had    been 


ptiste  rose 
or  a  moment,  in  silence 


at  the  unfortunates  about  him. 

Then  he  pointed  to  his  handiwork,  and  said: 
•'Suppose  the  man  ulu,  lives  in  this  house 

has  a  son  who  ha^  done  you  a  .j^reat  wron^tr. 

Suppose  this  son  leave,  i'.r  a  forei-n  country 


.^(14 


:.MHr-:Rs 


iiiakni--  11  iuipovviWIo  I'-.r  sou  to  hriiij^  him  lo  :m 
.•K-couniin^i;-,  mvM  ilu-rc  ii-u  still  he  revenj^e^" 
■\'*>ne  made  rc'[)l\ . 

iliii  all  looked  down  at  ilu>  tn\-  liouse  and 
'>.'iriis  oil  the  ll(»or. 

'"Ah.  \(>u  d-.n't  know!"  snapped  I'.aptisie. 
liis  faec  a  livid  white,  hi:,  eves  startinjr  out  of 
his  head.  -Well,  here's  on-"  who  does  know,  as 
you  shall  see." 

Ilo  drew  from  };is  pocket  a  handful  of 
crumpled  pai)er>  xvhich  he  placed  in  the  space 
hetween  the  harns  and  the  s^ibles. 

Then  he  struck  a  match  and  licrhted  the 
the  paper. 

In  a  trice  the  little  structures  were  ablaze. 

Some  o)  the  maniacs  ran  shrieking-  over  the 
ward. 

C.uards  came  running-  with  buckets  of  water, 
which  the-  dashed  on  the  flames. 

^  Baptiste.  '.vho  had  retired  to  the  (.pposite  side 
ot  the  r.,om,  looked  on  in  silent  di.sgust. 

From  this  day.  he  was  considered  a  danger 
Hus  lunatic  by  the  auihoniics,  while  on  his  part 
he  became  daily  i);ore  determined  u])on  escape. 

To   formulate   .i    plan   .»f  escape   from   the 
asylum  was  by  no  means  an  easy  task  for  Bap- 


fiiMi'.KRS 


30- 


ti>tc  Lc  JJlanc.  who  \va>  dn.ch  walched  since 
the  episode  of  the  fire. 

To  be  successml  j„  i„\  aitenipt  \n  roach  the 
open  country,  he  niu>t  wait  tor  ^tlch  time  as 
two  of  the  ^aiards  were  ..IT  (hity. 

This  would  leave  hut  «me  in  char<re  of  the 
ward. 

It  nuist  al>.,  he  at  ni-hi.  so  that  darkness 
might  assist  him  in  his  flight. 

Many  scliemes  were  evolved  hv  him.  and  re- 
jected torthwith.  for  some  daw  or  weak  point 
'n  the  plan,  that  mi-ht  work  t..  his  undoin- 

On  a  number  of  occasions,  he  was  on^he 
point  ot  putting  into  execution  some  newly  de- 
^•i^ed  plan  of  escape,  u  hen  he  gave  ^^■ay  under 
the  high  tension  of  suspense  and  went'to  rav- 
ing  madly. 

When  these  spdls  came  on  him,  it  was  neces- 
sary, of  late,  to  place  him  in  a  padded  cell, 
where  he  remained  for  several  davs.  until  the 
malady  abated. 

He  emerged  ;\eak  and  treml)hng  from  head 
1'^  font ;  but  conscious  and  ^■ery  much  depressed. 

He  would  write  rambling  letters  to  Mamman 
and    Elaine-pitiful,    heart-rending    missive. 


mh< 


hMHEHS 


'.(•lllll!;    <i| 


lii^  wificlied  loneliness  and  beg^in'^' 
llu-ni  to  o.ine  and  take  liini  home  with  them. 

He  heo-an  to  ne.i^deet  hiin>e1t. 

fie  refused  food. 

I  lis  heard  o-rew  thick  and  sora.ir.iry. 

I  lis  hair  was  nfn\  verv  j^ra\-. 

I  lis  e_\e.>  took  (.n  a  furti\e.  hunted  look. 

I  Ic  .sat  Ihn.u.ijh  the  l(.n,o-  fla\  v.  ,„-;  a  hench  in 
a  corner  of  the  ward,  alone  anrj  '  :ent,  always 
waitni^q:,  always  watchino  for  the  chance  which 
he  ])clie\ed  would  come. 

One  day.  two  ..f  the  inmates  sat  clo.se  to  him 
on  the  bench  in  the  corner  of  the  ward. 

They  were  both  "periodicals."  like  himself: 
and  were  now  in  their  rij^ht  senses. 

"There  is  g:oing  to  he  a  ball.""  said  one,  a  tall, 
raw-boned  man.  with  mild  blue  eyes  and  the 
manners  of  a  gentleman.  "It's  to'be  quite  an 
affair.  The  doctors  and  nurses  and  guards 
will  dance  with  the  inmates.'" 

"That  s  net  for  us."  rejoined  his  companion, 
a  short.  hea\  \-  fellow .  with  ueazel  eyes  and  a 
low,  narrow  brow.  "Tt^  for  the  others,  that 
don't  get  spells.  It's  to  be  Thursday  night. 
The  guards  were  talkinj;  about  it  a  while  ago. 
Crane  and  Murray  are  going.     Rut  >\'i1son.  the 


KMBKRS 


307 


:H-u<,t,arcUv,Ilstayo„dmyinthcuard.   Cod 
"  -^n,c-I,ody  ooi  „,<1.  oh  ?    ffso,nehoclv,^otl,arr 
\\iiat  then,  vhr" 

Atthis  mon.ent  \\i)son.  ,he  new  ouard.  hap 
pcned  to  pass.  ' 

'I'lie  two  men  icascd  talking-. 
Baptisto.  ;vhM  had  ..verheard  the  oMuer.a 
t'on.  scnuim^cd  the  ouard  oa-erh 
"Thursday  ni^dtt.'  he  said  under  h,>  breath 
I  nnrsday  night,  or  never !"" 


niAI'TI-.R  T\\  i:xrv-NiNE. 


The  asylum  rlauco  ucrc  <^'\\cn  al  iiucrvals 
lor  the  recreation  ni  the  harmless,  non-violent 
inmates. 

They  were  product--  of  nmch  good  in  the 
institution,  relaxing  i  .  i-nds  of  these  unfor- 
tunate>  and  relic\  ing  them,  t'or  the  time  being, 
of  their  cares  and  their  sorrows. 

Those  there  were,  however,  who.  for  various 
reasons,  were  not  permitted  to  attend  the  enter- 
tainments. 

And  among  the  numher  was  Baptistc  Le 
Blanc. 

The  night  of  the  dance  found  hitn  well 
prepared  to  do  l)attle.  if  need  arose,  for  his 
freedom. 

F?ut,  as  a  lir^t  inean>  of  escape,  he  would  con- 
tent himself  with  stealth  and  strateL"\-. 

J  le  had  l"orniul.-itcd  no  definite  ]ilan  of  action; 
for  he  knew  not  \vh:\\  :.\ew:e<  nn'ght  open  to 
fa\'-»r  hi-  deli^■er^ . 

13081 


f':.\lt{KRS 


MY) 


'"^  'i^-  knvw    iliai  all  ti 


nig-lit  would  I 
\vi 


"»^e  iiMi  on  (Iiii\  liiai 


•^'  in  tiu'  lar  \vini>-  of  tl 


!<-'  as\lnni. 


HTc  the  hall  wouhlh,  Ik  I.l;  ami.  al...  that  .1 


"UIMC    WdUld    ,]i 


"w:"  aii\-  iiMi.e  ,,r  ..uui\    that 


■'">^Hthen,adct.>,hwanhi>attc,npta,cscaiH- 

,  '■'■'""  :"^'""^^''>'"--^'^'lH-l,a.lhou^d.t  a. stout 
sharp  pona,.,  jack-knife,  with  uhich  he  woul<i 

<f^"n'n,IInn,<df,n  the  event  of  <lJso>vcM-v 

He  was  fully  ,lete..nine(l  to  gain  h,;  liheriv 
l''-'^  "'.^iil  or  die  in  the  attcm]n. 

Hie  night    anie  on  clear  and  stillv 
llic    sky   was    .tudded    with    stars   and    ihe 
I'artli  lay  hathed  in  sot't  inoonlio-ht. 

I^apiisto  ^^aited  a   long  wink-,   his  eve   fur- 

t'volyonWdson.thcnewguanl.whowasnow 
alone  m  charge  of  the  ward 

Through  the  barred  windows  the  strains  of 

^'"   •^•''■^■^•"^•'•^vah.d.au-d  into  the  great,  hare 
room. 

•^<""e  of  ,he  maniacs  gral.hed  each  other 
^  --'Iv  about  the  l,odv  and  wen,  through  a 
slired  Mt  the  number. 

(Hhers  attempted  to  sing. 

Some  cHmbe<l   upon   die   window   .ilK   and 
!-ered  kniginglv  across  the,;,,,  !,,,,„  ,.,^  ,he 


(! 


l':.MP.KKs 


lii;ln>  m  iln-  ball  ro-.ni.  tli;-:  twiiikU-,!  like  link- 
-tar->  ill  ilic  nii,'-!!!. 

<  )iK-i',  ihc  .L;iiar(l  k-fi  liiv  |„,s|  at  tlu-  door  and 
went  oni  into  the  hall. 

lUu    llaptisU'   feared  a   ru^e  <>u   tlie  pari  n\ 
\\  ils(in  ;  and  remained  seated. 

His  heart   llu:nij)ed  wiidl}-  an<I   in>tinclivelv 
his  hand  souij^ht  the  jack-knife. 

His  eyes  were  ri\eted  (.n  the  half  ..pen  door. 

it  moved  a  little  and  the  o-uard  reaj^pcared. 

\V  ilson  was  a  new  man.     I  le  knew  naught  of 

this  Imsiness  (.f  carina-  fnr  lunatics;  and  liad 

already  expressed  himself  as  heintj  dissatisfied 

w  ith  the  work. 

On  entcrino-  the  ward  he  k-ft  the  door  ajar 
and  went  over  tt.  a  window  where  a  number  of 
the  inmates  stood  watchin^  the  liijits.  and  the 
fi.^ures  ^e^lidin^-  in  the  distance. 

All  the  |)aiients  were  now  standing  in  little 
KJ'oups  at  the  window  s.  dieir  backs  to  Baptiste. 
Jiut,  to  reach  the  door  w  iihoui  detection,  ii 
would  re(|uire  extreme  caution  on  his  part, 
i'or,  ai  any  moment  >oine<jne  mi«lit  tuni  anumd 
an<l  catch  him  in  the  act. 

i'he  inmates  were  not  to  be  tru-,trd. 
rhe\  curried  I'avor  witii  the  .i,aiardv 


HMI5KRS  >,i 

H<-  >vn,a..icd  ,n  a  sutn,.-  posture,  and    Uv 
;"'''"\  ''\    '"^    »^^^"*i^-    -noved    along    sloul'v 

iliemenai  ilu-  uindou..  ' 

Once.  Wilson  lunu-dahoni  and  cvccihun 
i--iptiste  n.adc  a   supmne  eftori'io  o.n.n.I 

'"'nsell,  and  .nnU-d  at  the  <^nuu\ 

rhis  relieNni  ll,..  o.lu-r'.   Mi^j.ic.on,  and  he 

turned  back  to  the  uindou 

1"  another  n.onu-nt  he  had  eon.e  to  the  end  or 
Hie  bench. 

■'''^^'•-;^^;-'ill  a  distance  of. .n.e, en  ,,aee. 
" 'Cover  heiore  reaching  the  dooi- 

Hc  grasped  t'v,ackd<nife  and  ope.ted  it. 
'^-Itly    hke   a   cat.   he   tiptoed  across   the 
>I>ace.  u  h'ch  to  him  .een.ed  iniernnnable 

Kc^chtng  the  do..- ,„  safety,  he  glanced  back 

i'^^^'^^^7  •-->•■■-.  along  the  uall. 
'"  niake  sin-e  he  had  not  been  v,vn 

'iien-   laces   uvre  still   tnrned   auav   ,n   the 
<l'rect,on  ol  the  light,  and  the  inn^.c    ' 

i  here  was  no  one  in  the  main  hall  lo  .ton  or 
question  him.  ' 

He  passed  the.. ir.ce  and  dcM-endcltlK-  Ion., 
flight  otstan-s  to  the  onier  door. 

Hiere  was  a  ...ft  patter  behind  Inn.. 


.^1-'  l':MliKRS 

lie  drew  iiis  'Kiiife  and  wheeled  ahoul. 

It  was  Rover,  the  superintendent's  New- 
foundland do^',  coming-  towards  him.  his  tail 
\\ai4J4inj^'  in  token  oi  liiendshij). 

liaptiste  stroked  the  hi;^-  fellow  on  the  head, 
and  turned  to  the  donr. 

It  opened. 

Then  closed  aj^ain. 

Baptiste  was  tree. 


\? 


CIIArTKR  TIIIR•|•^■. 


I  lu'  <la\  after  iln-  imcriiieiii  nt  Alice.  Mrs. 
kodniy  (how  hack  to  f.asallc  lot^^cthcr  with 
W'ilhani  aiui  (Jeor^e. 

The  dcatli  of  the  daughter  seemed  to  have 
narrowed  the  i^ap  hetween  the  parents. 

Tiiey  were  hoth  very  sad. 

They  reminded  each  other,  along  the  way,  of 
this  or  that  j^ood  trait  in  the  departed  child. 

Mrs.  Rodray  referred,  at  times,  to  her  slay 
m  Montreal,  and  William  spoke  of  certain  im- 
provements to  he  made  on  the  homestead  and  of 
the  spring  planting  and  sowing. 

(leorge  had  grown  to  he  quite  a  man. 

lie  had  not,  as  \et.  decided  upon  a  vocation. 

lie  was  very  fond  of  women;  and  something 
of  a  gahant. 

fn  Mis  classes  he  wa-  a  dullard,  but  managed 
to  get  along  at  a  fair  rate,  by  reason  of  his  con- 
ciliatory attitude  towards  the  various  pro- 
fessors and  prefects. 


M4 


i-:.\ii;Kks 


I  he  pric^t^  Would  s;i\,  ;iiiioiil;  tlKiiiM-l\i*» : 

"All.  lie  is  not  like  lii^  hrotlu'r.  Maurice: 
Maurii'o  wa^  so  pioud  and  dcternuiR-il '" 

I  lu'  improved  relations  l>ct\\een  ilu-  elder 
kodrays  continued  at'tc-i  tlnir  return  to  Lasalle. 

l'"or  the  lir.st  tiini-  in  many  vears.  thev  chatte*! 
ai  tahle.  studiously  a\()idini;  anv  topic  that  had. 
in  the  past,  hie'i  the  cause  of  ill-feelinm  hetween 
ihem. 

Trin'  enough,  there   were  old   wounds,   thai 

niij^ht  ne\er  lie  healed  or  tori^otten. 

r.ut  the  |)ain  ot"  iheni  was  home  in  silence 
and  in  resiirnatj,,,! 

riiere  si-cmed  to  he  heiwcen  them  a  tacit  tni 
derstandin^.    an    unspoken    aj^fceinent    to   lav 
aside   the   i)asi    wiih   all    its   hitterness   and   to 
strive    lor   hetter   thini^s   now    that    the\    were 
.L^row  ino-  old. 

( )ne  kind  w»»rd  encouraged  another  until  the 
old  itchiiii;-  of  antajoonisin  was  no  lousier  evi- 
dent, even  in  matters  which  had  used  to  he  the 
cause  of  i>reat  conteinion. 

The  death  of  Alice  had  awakened  them,  as 
from  a  sound  sleep. 

The  love  of  IVancoi^  for  their  daughter  hlos- 


J':Mi'.hK' 


s 


;'onKM  lK-r..ir  tia.,.,.  l,kc- a  tluucT  Ml  ,-,,u- hc.uilv 
111  tlic  wmuT  (.f  tlu-ir  lives. 

And  ihcv  >;ii.|.  n,  tlu-ir  liean...  ihai  lu-  I,,vc.! 
"HTl.c-tter  than  (l.cy  had  lovc-.H,..,-,  thonoh  .h,- 
was  then-  llcsh  and  their  hKu.d. 

Tht'v  w,nild  c-von  (have  imr.  th,.  omnirv  i.. 
visit  fonhoday  at  the  Iioum- ..|  a  frien.l. 

S.unetin.r.  Ihcy  went  Mvor  ,o  the  lakr.  uhrrr 
•^^''•^"■'^^^'  ^.nd    |.:iainc-  ha.i  ,^..„o.      Ilu-v   u..„M 
,^a/e   nni    np.,n    the   uau-r..    thnr    hea'n.   hur 
t'lenci    with    the   nis<K-n    .f   ,h.   n.nrn.urin.-- 
waves.  '^ 

'f'lK-  rm.ncihatiun  heiuiru  \\  ,||,a,„  R..drav 

;';:Vir  '^'" ''''  ^'  <'-Mt.K.,ino-  ,,ro,  u,«.n 

<'Alallcy.  who  vieucd  v,ith  apprdu-nMon  the 
poacctnl  closino-  .,,„,  ,.,-  ,,,^.^^.  .,,„-.,„,,,,„ 
lues. 

lie  had  lost  none  of  his  |.res,i.v  .n„o, 
tronies. 

<)"  the  contrary,  he  uas  lookol  „,,  ,,.1,,   ,11 

whognx.ledhiswhiskvandsa,  ihron.h  their 
day.s  m  the  store. 

He    was    nuieh    -iven    1..   ronu^elhn..    !hr..e 
.gathered  ahout  him.  01,  ,veaM"..n. 

"Xmv.  hoys.- he  wonKNay  .0  „:rn  older  than 
hnnselt.  -rememher  uhai  the  ,.,.,.,1  I k  .av> 


IJ   tile 


ii 


Un 


l-.Mr.KKS 


'!)(<  iiiiiu  oilier^,'  li(>\>.  Ml)  iiiUt)  iiilni>.  I  li;it 
rule's  <4(J(k1  cnoiiirh  for  anyone:  I've  followed 
it  all  ni\  lite." 

rile  circle  had  j^^rown  lo  c(jnsi(lerable  i)ro])Oi" 
lions.     I'ut    the    liherality    of    the    host    never 
halked  at  the  nuinher.s. 

All  the  more  cause,  thoui^dit  he.  to  he  pleased 
witli  himself. 

l're(iuently,  when  in  his  cups,  he  would  staj.^- 
^er  out  from  behind  the  counter  and  face  the 
^rouj)  of  tipplers,  who  were  usuall\'  as  drunk  as 
himself: 

"Thcvre  all  niv  friends,"  he  would  solilo- 
(lui/.e,  in  their  hearin<^.  "Xc^i  a  man  jack 
amonj^-  'em  that's  not  a  friend  o'  Hu,2^h 
O'Malley':,." 

And  they  would  take  up  the  cue  and  chorus 
-libly: 

"It's  Mr.  O'Alallev  that  knows  his  friends, 
and  no  mistake!" 

Or: 

"And  where  would  a  man  be  lookint^-  for  a 
l)etter  friend  than  hi.iiself?" 

To  which  Bartlett,  the  dean  of  the  cronies, 
w  ould  invariably  add : 

"Three  cheers  for  D'Mallev!" 


i:mi'.kks 


M7 


riii^  oiitluir^t  ot"  ;iH'r;ti('ii  ,iiitl  l<i\alt\  iicwr 
i^rcw  (A<\  to  ( )"MaIlcv. 

Tt  iK-\iT  t'ail--(l  to  wtll  irai-s  of  jo\  in  his 
l)lo()d-shot  eyes, 

Brinj^iii^  his  soiled  ro]  kcrchift'  into  phiy,  he 
would  make  his  uay  iincertainlv  to  the  chest 
where  the  c<.veted  ju^  ua>  kept  ;  and.  drawing' 
it  forth  from  its  hidiii<^-plaee.  hear  it  in  hoth 
arm>.  slowly,  and  with  a  pitiful  show  of  diqnity. 
t<»  the  waitinpf  group. 

There  were  wild  or/jies  in  the  store.  T.oiifj 
nocturnal  carousals. 

There  were  card  gamc^.  small  gambUn.!?. 
songs,  wild,  ghoulish  yarn-;  and  fiddling;  and 
always  liquor — for  0"Mallcy's  jug  formed  the 
pi^•ot,  the  center  and  horizon  of  their  little 
lives. 

O'Malley  had  taken  on  flesh. 

His  red.  flabby  face  was  now  streaked  w  ith 
little  branches  of  purplish  veins. 

And  under  his  watery  c}Cs  were  putl"\-  s-.-ks. 
blackish,  like  the  touch  of  mortalit} . 

His  hands,  which  \\crc  '-wollen  and  red, 
shook  like  lea\cs  on  a  tree  when  IiC  rai.sed  them 
to  hib  face. 


I 


.-.  1  s 


f'.xi  i;i-:K'.- 


!  \c  lia'l  loiiL;  -inc*'  tirvMl  i>\  raw  (.'.^l;-.     He  ate 

I'lll    Itlllc  ]\'<\\  . 

Ill'  ^\)v\M  1)11!  liiilv  time  with  Ann.  who  was 
a^ain  with  child. 

lie  inwxT  railrij  in  hrini;  her  nM\t'ls  from  ihc 
I'Mini.  which  -he  irad  \\i;h  vvcv  incrca-in^" 
iiitcrc-^t. 

I  lor  I'll!  w,i\>  ah'iiit  ihe  Imu>c  ha<l  not 
iii'I>ro\o(l. 

I '|yon  luT  rrtnin  t'roni  Montreal.  Mr--.  Kod- 
ra\-  was  cl'li-i'd  to  ;i^-U"u-  the  hni'thcn  of  ihc 
duiic^  in  ihc  h'  'iisc^h'  'Id. 

I  "ndcr  Aini"^  nii-niana,Li'cniciit  the  liouse  was 
goinc'  ^'''  I'Hoh. 

A  L;hirii)^c  ;,i  liic  jk-M-  -aid  little  hetter  for 
ihc  farm. 

Theti  it  wa-  that  it  came  to  Mr-.  Ri^drax-  that 
perhap>  -he  wa-  [)artly  toltlanie. 

."^he  and  r)\\i'i]ley  did  not  speak. 

Fhn.  as  he  came  hut  rarel\  to  the  house,  dur- 
in;^-  the  day.  Iter  -on  in  law"-  presence  on  the 
pl.ice  wa-  c>|  little  matter  i<''  her. 

It  was  now  -.mie  time  ^ince  die  iiad  heafl 
frrun  Maurice. 

Site  was  Worried  alx'Ut  his  iono-  silence. 

[  le  misfht  he  -ick. 


KM  HERS 


319 


It 


She  w.'iitcd  from  (h\\  t.,  day.  hopefully  at 
first,  and  then,  as  the  days  dragged  into  weeks, 
with  a  stranj^e  nn"snrivinj>  which  she  could  not. 
Iierseh'.  undersiand. 

<')ne  da_\    Airs.   Rodray   was  in  the  garden, 
when  Elaine  I,e  lUanc's  little  ^irl  ran  uj)  to  the 
paling-  and  sh-niied.  in  childish  jov: 
".M\  jtajja's  coming-  hotne!" 
'■^'our  papa,  my  child  T^" 
■■\  es :  mama  says  he  went  very  far  away ;  and 
that  he's  comin;^-  home:  and  that   he'll  never 
leave  us  any  more."' 

Mrs.  Rodray  I'.oked  into  the  eyes  of  the  child. 
A  dreadful  thought  struck  her. 
She  started. 

The  little  girl  was  gazing  up  at  her,  smiling 
delightedly  over  her  good  new^. 
Mrs.  Rodray  said  to  her  kindiv: 
"It  will  be  very  nice  to  have  your  papa  home 
again,  my  dear." 

Then  the  little  one  saw  her  mother  waving  to 
her.  in  the  distance;  and  ran  off  towards  the 
house  of  the  Le  Blancs. 

Mrs.  Rodray  said  naught  of  her  misgiving 
to  William  or  the  others. 

Manv  taties  she  went  over  the  matter  in  her 
mind. 


Mi) 


KMBERS 


r 


She  admitted,  with  i^reat  reluctance,  that 
Maurice  was  not  tree  from  suspicion. 

Where  wa.s  he  now? 

Why  this  long  silence? 

.She  rememhered.  now.  the  many  days  her 
son  had  spent  with  h^laine.  during  his  last  vaca- 
tion in  Lasalle.     They  had  ])een  inseparable. 

And  then,  the  eyes  of  the  child — it  was  as  if 
Maurice  himself  had  stood  there  before  her. 

.\nd  his  last  letter,  enquiring  about  Elaine 
and  her  child : 

Why  had  she  nut  th<)Ught  of  it  long  ago? 

She  shuddered  at  thought  of  the  disgrace,  if 
it  were  so  that  he  was  coming  home: 

God,  what  some  mothers  had  to  bear  I 

She  plucked  a  few  pansies  and  went  back  into 
the  house,  where  she  souglit  the  quiet  of  her 
room. 

William  found  her.  an  hour  later,  kneehng 
by  the  bed  and  weeping  softly. 

""It  was  the  will  of  God,"  he  said,  referring 
to  the  loss  of  Alice.  ""He  gave  her  \o  us,  and 
He  took  her  auav.     We  should  not  complain." 

And  Mrs.  Rodray  made  no  reply;  but,  brush- 
ing away  the  tears,  walked  out  with  William 
into  the  twilight. 


•  ■* 


EiMBERlr 


321 


The  katy-dids  filled  the  air  with  their  per- 
sistent, tell-tale  son^. 

And  from  the  river  the  triHing  of  frogs  came 
to  their  ears. 

They  walked,  in  silence,  down  the  gravel 
driveway  that  led  to  the  road. 

The  sounds  of  voices  came  from  the  store,  as 
they  went  by. 

All  words  were  drowned  in  loud,  discordant 
laughter  and  song. 

Mrs.  Rodray  brought  her  hands  together 
impatiently  and  gazed  upwards,  at  the  sky,  in 
mute  appeal. 

William  spoke  at  last : 

•'O'Malley  has  to  go:  I  shall  endure  it  no 


longer. 


"But  Ann,  the  way  she  is  now:  Have  you 
thought  of  that?"' 

'•Ann  may  remain  if  she  wishes  to;  she  is  our 
daughter ;  but  O'AIalley  will  have  to  go.  I  shall 
tell  him  in  the  morning." 

The  incident  cut  short  their  walk. 

They  turned  about  and  retraced  their  steps  to 
the  house. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE. 


In  the  home  of  the  Le  Blancs,  Elaine  sat  far 
into  Liie  night,  reading  over  and  over  the  letter 
which  she  had  received  that  day  from  Maurice. 

He  had  heard  but  recently  of  his  paternity. 
He  loved  Elaine  as  he  had  loved  her  on  that 
first  day;  and  longed  to  set  eyes  on  their  child. 

He  realized  the  great  wrong  he  had  done  her, 
and  would  atone. 

He  had  left  the  Order  of  the  Most  Ho^y 
Saviour — renounced  his  vows. 

By  many  he  would  be  considered  a  renegade, 
a  traitor  to  heaven. 

But  this  he  would  endure  gladly,  if  only  she 
would  give  him  back  her  love. 

If  still  her  heart  was  true  to  him,  she  must 
watch  for  him,  as  he  might  not  say  just  what 
day  he  would  arrive  in  Lasalle. 

Mamman  was  overjoyed  to  hear  the  good 
news,  and  laughed  and  sang  throughout  the 
day  as  she  used  to  do  when  all  was  well  with 
them. 

[322] 


EMBERS 


323 


At  the  supper  table,  after  Elaine  had  gone  to 
her  room,  Maniman  imparted  the  news  to  her 
nephew,  Isidore  Lalonde. 

He  made  no  comment ;  but  seemed  to  lose  his 
appetite  at  once. 

For  several  moments  he  gazed  down  absent- 
ly at  his  plate. 

And  now,  with  sudden  decision,  he  rose  up 
from  the  table  and  went  out  to  the  barns. 

From  its  peg  on  the  wall,  he  to  )k  down  a 
short,  vicious-looking  knife  and  drew  it  from 
its  sheath. 

He  felt  tlie  edge  of  it  with  his  thumb,  and 
shook  his  head  dubiously. 

It  would  have  to  be  sharper  than  that. 

He  took  it  over  to  the  grind-stone  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  barn. 

He  worked  for  a  long  while,  until  the  knife 
had  an  edge  like  a  razor. 

Then  he  replaced  it  in  the  sheath  and  slipped 
it  into  his  pocket. 

As  he  started  off  for  the  Rodray  store,  he 
sang  aloud  in  clear,  resonant  voice: 
"Si  tu  vois  mon  pays, 
Men  pays  malheureux, 
Va  dire  a  mes  amis 
Que  je  me  souvicns  d'eux." 


324 


EMBERS 


The  crq;)'  was  at  its  height  when  Lalonde 
entered  the  store. 

The  newcomer  cast  a  glance  about  him  at 
tlie  circle. 

They  '\ere  all  very  drunk. 

The  jug  stood  solemnly  on  the  counter. 

Isidore  crossed  the  Hoor  and,  taking  it  delib- 
erately in  both  hands,  drank  a  long  draught. 

He  lighted  his  pipe  and  seated  himself  on 
a  box.  by  the  side  of  O'AI alley. 

One  by  one  the  revellers  rose  and  tilted  the 
jug  to  their  lips,  growing  more  boisterous,  the 
while,  and  more  unconstrained. 

They  we^e  very  loud. 

They  sang  wild,  rambling  songs. 

They  stamped  the  floor  heavily  in  a  hope- 
less effort  to  go  through  the  movements  of  a 

Some  laughed  excessively  over  nothing. 

Others  fdund  cause  to  weej)  over  the  pledg- 
ing of  their  devotion. 

When  the  last  of  the  litiuor  was  drank,  Isi- 
dore was  as  well  along  in  his  cups  as  the  others. 

The  cronies  straggled  out  into  the  moonlight 
and  staggered  down  the  village  street,  parting, 
at  i)(>ints.  and  going  their  various  ways. 


EMBERS 


325 


When  they  were  left  alone,  Isidore  looked 

up  at  O'Malley,  and  said  : 

"I  hear  your  priestling's  to  be  back  shortly." 
"Who  do  you  mean,  not  Maurice?" 
"Himself,  and  no  one  else.    As  [  understand 

it,  he's  not  very  far  from  Lasallc  oven  now. 

He  has  given  up  the  idea  of  becoming  a  saint. 

He  has  come  back  to  earih  again;  and  already 

he's  hunting  him  a  wife." 

"You   don't   say  so!"  exclaimed   O'Malley. 

"Damn,  but  you're  a  sharp  one  at  getting  the 

news!     My,  my!     Coming  back  to  Lasalle,  is 

he?     Bad  'cess  to  the  fool!     Now  I  wonder 

what  he  thinks  there's  here  for  him  to  do." 
"He  wants  to  marry  Elaine  Le  Blanc,  of 

course,"  rejoined  Isidore,  with  an  oath. 

"Come  along,"  said  O'Malley,  changing  the 

subject:     "I  keep  a  little  drop  in  the  barn,  for 

em^-gencies,  as  the  doctors  w^ould  say.     I'll 

lociv  up  and  take  you  with  me." 

He  turned  the  key  in  the  door  and  put  it  in 
his  pocket. 

Then  Isidore  and  O'Malley,  hanging  on  to 
each  other  for  support,  turned  towards  the 
barn  and  struggled  for  the  goal. 

Arriving  at  the  barn,  they  went  in  and  closed 
the  door  behind  them. 


326 


EMBERS 


Isidore  sat  down  heavily  I'pon  a  heap  of  hay, 
and  O'Malley  fumbled  for  the  jug. 

"Damned  if  I  know  just  where  I  hid  it,"  he 
said,  after  a  vain  search.  "Seems  to  me  it 
ought  to  be  right  here,  under  the  robes.  Ah, 
I  thought  so:  there  she  is,  Isidore,  my  boy;  and 
it's  good  and  full  she  is,  to  be  sure.  Come  now, 
my  laddie-buck,  and  drink  hearty.  We'll  drink 
to  each  other's  health  and  good  fortune.  How's 
that,  Isidore?  Health  and  good  fortune! 
That's  all  anyone  can  wish  for  in  this  world, 
Isidore.    It  is,  to  be  sure." 

"You  may  drink  as  you  please,"  replied  La- 
londe,  struggling  to  his  feet.  "But  I  have  a 
different  toast — I  toast  your  priestling — with 
this." 

As  he  spoke,  he  drew  the  knife  from  his 
pocket,  and  out  of  its  sheath. 

The  moonlight,  coming  in  through  the  cracks 
in  the  walls,  played  on  the  short,  pointed  blade. 

"What!"  said  O'Malley:  "You  wouldn't 
do  that,  would  you,  man?  You  wouldn't  kill, 
would  you?" 

"Kill?  Did  you  say  kill?  You  talk  plain, 
to  be  in  so  dark  a  place.  Well,  let  that  go.  I 
have  nothing  against  you.     f3ut,  tell  me,  your 


EMBERS 


327 


priestling,  did  he  not  kill?  Give  me  the  jug. 
I'll  have  a  drink  and  go  home.  I  don't  like 
this  place.    Give  me  the  jug !" 

"Nonsense,  my  lad ;  it's  nonsense  you're  talk- 
mg:  Sure  you've  got  nothing  against  the 
place,  at  all.  And  here's  the  jug.  And  it's 
welcome  you  are,  to  be  sure." 

Lalonde  drank ;  but  did  not  leave. 

Instead,  he  fell  back  limply  upon  the  hay. 

O'ATalley  now  raised  the  jug  to  his  lips. 

He  threw  his  head  back  and  opened  his 
mouth  to  receive  the  liquor. 

As  he  did  so,  he  lost  his  balance  and  fell 
backward  by  the  side  of  Lalonde. 

The  jug  fell  to  the  floor,  in  pieces. 

O'Malley  made  no  attempt  to  regain  his  feet ; 
but  lay  where  he  had  fallen,  like  dead. 

And  now  the  quiet  of  the  night  was  broken 
only  by  the  snores  of  the  two,  who  lay  there, 
oblivious  to  all  about  them. 

Some  time  passed.  * 

It  was  well  on  in  the  night. 

Without  the  barn,  not  a  thing  stirred. 

The  moon  was  a  silver  disk. 

There  were  many  stars. 

The  countryside  lay  bathed  in  soft,  pale  light. 


' 


328 


EMBERS 


The  earth  slept. 

The  pair  lay  where  they  had  fallen,  still  snor- 
inj^  deeply. 

Suddenly,  the  door  of  the  harn  opened,  and 
the  moonlight  flooded  the  floor. 

In  the  framework  of  the  door,  hatless,  wild- 
eyed,  unkempt,  stood  Baptiste  Le  Blanc. 

Fortune  had  favored  his  escape  from  the 
asylum  and  his  suhsequent  flight  th  jgh  the 
country  hack  to  La.salle.  He  had  avoided  the 
railways,  fearing  detection  and  arrest.  He 
rode  some  twenty  miles  with  a  farmer  who 
was  returning  home  from  Montreal. 

The  remainder  of  the  way  he  walked,  stop- 
ping at  farm  houses  along  the  road  for  food 
and  drink. 

He  arrived  in  the  countryside  of  Lasalle  on 
the  morrow  of  his  escape  from  Long  Point. 

A  league  or  so  to  the  north  of  the  village,  he 
entered  a  thickly  wooded  forest  of  pines  and 
lay  down  to  rest  until  darkness  came  to  shield 
him. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  night. 

The  sleep  had  refreshed  him. 

He  thought  of  his  mission;  and  started  oflf 
towards  the  sleeping  village  at  a  steady  gait. 


EMBERS 


.^29 


His  brain  seemed  to  him  quite  clear. 

He  knew  what  he  was  about. 

He  reasoned  out  the  justice  of  the  act  which 
he  contemplated. 

These  people  beyond,  in  the  house  on  the  hill, 
or  one  of  them,  which  amounted  to  the  same, 
had  wronged  "la  Petite." 

It  was  meet  and  proper  that  she  be  avenged. 

He  approached  the  barn  with  the  utmost 
caution. 

Once  he  turned  and  gazed  across  the  moon- 
lit fields  at  his  home  by  the  wayside. 

There  was  a  light  in  Elaine's  room. 
The  night  wind  fluttered  the  leaves  in  clumps 
of  trees  nearby. 

He  started. 

But,  becoming  reassured,  he  went  on. 

Arriving  at  the  barn,  he  pushed  the  slide- 
door. 

It  opened  without  noise. 
For  a  moment  he  surveyed  the  scene. 
He  saw  the  mows  filled  to  the  roof  with  hay. 
He  saw  the  floors  piled  up  with  the  overflow 
of  last  year's  harvest. 

He  saw,  as  he  would  have  seen  in  the  light 


330 


EMBERS 


of  day,  the  faces  of  O'Malley  and  Ualonde,  a 
bluish  white  in  tlie  pale  sheen. 

Their  months  were  wide  open,  their  anus 
stretched  out,  hel|)less  and  limp. 

He  examined  the  door. 

The  key  was  in  the  loc'.c,  on  the  outside. 

lie  took  a  match  from  his  pocket  and  struck 
k  noiselessly  on  his  thigh. 

He  stooped  down  quickly  and  touched 
the  flame  to  the  hay  on  the  floor. 

And  now,  with  the  cunning  of  a  fiend,  lie 
closed  the  door  and  turned  the  key. 

This  done,  he  started  olT,  on  a  run,  for  the 
pine  forest,  where  he  had  .s.jpt  that  afternoon, 
and  from  which  he  could  watch  the  fire. 

There  was  a  low  muffled  roar,  as  of  a  storm 
gathering  strength. 

There  was  a  shriek — a  wild,  blood-curdling 
yell. 

Then  voices  mingled,  weeping  madly,  calling 
aloud. 

But  only  for  a  space. 

A  moment  later,  the  flames  had  burst  free  of 
the  barn  and  were  leaping  upwards  from  the 
roof,  in  a  mad  endeavor  to  reach  the  sky. 

The  great  blaze  awoke  the  Rodrays. 


KMIiERS 


331 


1  he  villagers  canic  running  to  the  .-^cenc. 

The  fire  spread  to  the  stahies  and  sheep- 
pens  ;  and  snaked  along  the  fence  rails,  towards 
the  orchards  and  the  house,  with  incredihle 
rapidity. 

Neighbors  came  running  with  buckets,  lad- 
ders and  axes. 

A  number  ran  up  to  the  burning  fences  and 
began  to  chop  them  down,  in  an  effort  to  keep 
back  the  fire  from  tlie  house. 

But  the  flames  swirled  and  gyrated  madly 
about  them,  dri\ing  them  back,  like  sheep,  to 
the  highway. 

All  I.asallc  was  now  awake  and  there. 

For  many  miles  the  great  flaming  pile  cast 
the  crimson  shadows  of  its  fire  over  the  sleep- 
ing land. 

Birds,  in  their  nests  in  the  trees,  awoke,  call- 
ing wildly  to  their  mates,  and  darted  oflF,  in 
deadly  fright,  they  knew  not  whither. 

In  the  pastures  cows  stampeded,  bellowing 
pitifully. 

Horses  galloped  madly  over  the  fields  in  a 
vain  effort  to  escape  the  awful  spectre  of  the 
fiery  light. 

Sheep  huddled  into  flocks,  bleating. 


352 


EMBERS 


!•■ 


When  all  hope  was  abandoned,  the  villagers 
grouped  together  on  the  flank  of  a  hill  at  a  safe 
distance  from  the  flying  sparks;  and  from  this 
amphitheatre  they  watched,  with  varying  emo- 
tions, the  ruthless,  pitiless  flames  in  their  work 
of  death  and  devastation. 

Strangers,  attracted  by  the  flaming  sky, 
came  from  neighboring  villages,  to  see. 

It  was  a  sight  such  as  there  had  never  been 
in  Lasalle. 

It  would  never  be  forgotten. 

It  made  the  blood  stop  at  the  heart. 

It  filled  the  soul  with  the  horror  of  its 
majesty. 

William  Rodray  and  his  wife  stood  together, 
apart  from  the  crowd,  watching  the  scene. 

The  red  flare  lighted  their  faces,  which  were 
pale  and  drawn. 

The  woman  leaned  upon  her  husband's  arm. 

William  was  barefoot  and  hatless. 

He  wore  a  pair  of  trousers  and  a  shirt  which 
was  open  at  the  chest. 

His  long  white  hair  fluttered  wistfully  in  the 
hot  wind. 

He  leaned  heavily  upon  his  cane  and  gazed, 
speechless,  on  the  awful  spectacle  before  him. 


EMBERS 


333 


A  few  steps  away  stood  Ann,  with  her  Httle 
ones  huddled  about  her. 

She  was  clad  in  a  petticoat  and  shawl;  and 
the  children  wore  only  their  night  gowns. 

Ann  did  not  speak  to  the  elder  Rodrays. 

She  looked  about  her  nervously  for  some 
sign  of  O'Malley,  whom  she  would  never  again 
see  in  life. 

She  shuddered,  as  women  do,  when  struck 
by  premonition  of  disaster. 

She  tried  to  comfort  the  little  ones,  by  say- 


"Don't  cry,  dears;  father  will  be  here  soon." 

Suddenly  a  stiff  gust  of  wind  struck  the 

flames,  bending  them  over  towards  the  house 

and  carrying  upon  its  breast  a  fiery  clouQ  of 

sjiarks. 

A  dozen  throats  shouted : 

"The  house  is  on  fire!" 

The  circle  widened. 

The  sky  was  hidden  by  a  great,  wide  canopy 
of  red. 

The  fire  stopped  at  nothing. 

It  swept  away  the  fences,  swooped  down 
upon  the  orchards,  leaving  the  trees  black, 
leafless  and  dead. 


334 


EMBERS 


Then  the  store  caught  fire  and  shot  up  into 
flames,  Hke  tinder. 

The  Rodrays  looked  upon  the  burning  home, 
motionless,  tearless,  like  lifeless  things. 

There  was  a  sharp,  crackling  sound,  fol- 
lowed by  a  swaying  of  the  gable  timbers ;  then 
a  loud,  booming  crash,  as  the  roof  sank  within 
the  walls  of  the  house. 

A  great  belch  of  fire  and  smoke  shot  up  to 
heaven,  scattering  sparks  for  acres  around. 

The  fire  lasted  far  into  the  night. 

By  degrees,  the  flames  paled,  growing  lurid 
in  the  darkness. 

Towards  dawn,  they  had  died  down  to  whirl- 
ing columns  of  smoke. 

When  the  sun  rose  again  over  Lasalle, 
naught  remained  of  the  Rodray  homestead  but 
a  blackened,  smouldering  mass. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO. 

It  was  the  day  after  the  fire. 

There  was  a  knot  of  villagers  and  farmers 
on  the  station  platform. 

The  same  little  group  of  the  curious  and  idle 
of  Lasalle  that  had  come,  for  years,  to  witness 
the  arrival  and  departure  of  the  trains. 

They  chewed  and  smoked,  their  hands  in 
their  pockets,  sitting  on  trucks  and  crates  and 
boxes. 

A  lazy,  desultory  conversation  wagged 
among  them. 

The  train  was  late. 

Sometimes,  one  of  the  little  group  would 
rise  slowly  to  his  feet  and  lumber  out  to  the 
tracks,  to  scan  the  horizon. 

The  baggage  master  went  about  his  duties 
with  a  show  of  quiet,  awkward  dignity. 

He  chewed  and  spat  with  the  gravity  becom- 
ing office,  and  paid  little  heed  to  the  loafers 
squatted  about  on  the  platform. 

[335] 


I    > 


w 


336 


EMBERS 


The  day,  warm  and  laden  with  the  breath  of 
new  mown  fields,  was  closing',  in  a  halo  of  fiery 
gold. 

There  was  a  shrill,  far-ofiF  call,  like  a  muf- 
fled shriek ;  and  a  small  puff  of  light  blue  smoke 
went  up  from  something  like  a  black  dot  on  the 
horizon. 

A  moment  later  the  thing  took  shape  and 
the  tracks  vibrated  with  the  sound  of  the  ap- 
proaching train. 

The  loungers  came  near  to  the  edge  of  the 
platform,  as  the  train  thundered  down  the 
track  and  came  to  a  stop  before  the  station. 

A  woman  and  a  child  came  down  the  steps 
of  the  second  coach  and  walked  over  to  a  wait- 
ing carriage. 

They  were  followed  by  Father  Nadeau,  who 
had  been  to  Montreal  that  day.  He,  too, 
stepped  into  a  vehicle  and  drove  off  towards 
Sanglow. 

Then,  from  the  rear  coach,  a  man  stepped 
stiffly  onto  the  platform. 

He  was  tall,  and  dark,  and  none  too  stoutly 
built. 

But  he  walked  erect  and,  as  he  passed  the 
group  of  men,  who  were  now  nudging  one  an- 


EMBERS 


337 


other  and  whispering  among  themselves,  he 
looked  them  calmly  in  the  eyes. 

lie  did  not  speak;  nor  look  back,  when  some- 
one tittered. 

But  with  head  still  erect,  he  turned  oflF  onto 
the  road  that  led  to  the  village. 

He  was  tired. 

He  had  journeyed  long  and  far. 

He  did  not  halt  to  rest;  but,  footsore  and 
hungry  of  heart,  he  trudged  wearily  on,  his 
eyes  fixed  eagerly  upon  the  knoll  in  the  road, 
overlooking  the  valley. 

He  stumbled  against  the  stones  at  his  feet. 

For  he  did  not  look  upon  the  ground;  but 
gazed  steadily  ahead,  his  eyes  uplifted,  scan- 
ning the  distance,  where  he  hoped  to  see  her 
coming  to  meet  him. 

But  she  did  not  appear;  and  with  a  cruel, 
death-like  flutter  at  the  heart,  he  climbed  the 
ascent. 

Women  in  the  farm  houses  recognized  him 
and  hurried  away  to  tell  their  brood. 

Doors  and  windows  were  filled  with  awe- 
struck, wondering  faces,  as  he  passed  upon  his 
way. 

An  old  French  woman  who  had  lived  for 


!  il 


■■'■«'- ■*i*«a«i 


338 


EMBERS 


many  years  oft  the  bounty  of  the  Rodrays, 
crossed  herself  at  sight  of  the  tall,  dark  tnan, 
and  hobbled  into  her  cabin,  muttering: 

"Apostat!  Apostat!" 

The  highway  from  the  field  to  the  home- 
stead stretched  out  like  a  giant  snake,  hidden, 
in  patches,  by  undulating  slopes  of  green  and 
yellow. 

In  the  meadow  grasshoppers  sang  drowsily. 

From  the  river  hard  by  the  shrill  piping  of 
frogs  broke  in  upon  the  (piiet  serenity  of  the 
scene. 

Along  the  way  the  eglanterre  ran  riot,  over- 
burdened with  laughing  bloom,  tilling  the  air 
with  the  perfume  of  simplicity  and  the  sweet 
mysticism  of  the  earth. 

The  dust  lay  thick  upon  the  road. 

Cat-birds  mewed  sadly  in  the  haw  tre-^:.. 

Arriving  upon  the  elevation  in  the  road,  the 
man  halted  and  looked  back. 

He  drew  a  long,  deei)  breath,  which  was 
more  like  the  heaving  of  a  sigh,  and  mopped 
his  face  with  a  cotton  kerchief,  smutty  and 
soiled  with  travel. 

"Home!"  exclaimed  the  man  aloud. 

The  faint  sound  of  a  bell  came  to  him. 


EM HERS 


339 


He  started  and  looked  around. 

Tlie  sun  had  set  heliind  Lasalle. 

Before  him  la\-  another  valley;  and  on  the 
summit  of  the  wide  plateau  heyond,  lav,  in  a 
low  and  shapeless  pile,  the  homestead  of  the 
Rodrays,  who  were  his  people. 

The  trees  aboiit  the  place  were  black  and 
stark;  the  fields  near  the  house  laid  waste. 

Spirals  of  smoke  floated  upwards  from  the 
smouldering  heap. 

The  man  swayed  like  a  sai)ling-,  his  hand 
clutching  his  throat. 

And  this  was  home! 

Nothing  stirred. 

No  human  being  was  there. 

His  head  swam;  and  his  cars  sang  with  a 
nuiltitude  of  sounds. 

And  now  he  leaned  ui)on  a  charred  and 
broken  picket  by  the  roadside,  and  wept  galling 
tears. 

And  when,  with  a  last  flicker  of  hope,  he 
raised  his  eyes  again,  feariul  lest  she  might  not 
come,  he  saw  Elaine  moving  towards  him  in 
the  distance. 

She  was  clad  in  simple  garments  of  white; 
and  by  her  side  was  a  little  one,  who  seemed  to 
be  making  great  haste. 


1 


340 


EMBERS 


And  at  sight  of  these  who  loved  him,  his 
soul  felt  the  .pulse  of  fortitude  for  coming 
struggles ;  and  in  his  heart  burst  forth  an  old, 
wild  song,  an  exultant  echo  of  a  past  that  was 
not  dead. 

Over  the  landscape  stole  the  hush  of  coming 
twilight,  and  far  to  the  west,  where  the  blue 
hills  raised  their  spurs  into  shifting  banks  of 
fleece,  a  great  flare  of  fire  and  copper  told 
where  the  sun  had  been  and  gave  promise  of 
a  golden  morrow. 

They  vscre  nearer  now,  hurrying  towards 
him,  hand  in  hand,  their  lips  parted  for  the  glad 
welcome. 

He  went  forward,  in  a  glimmering  haze  of 
tears,  to  meet  them  whose  love  was  great. 


THE  END. 


